


according to your heart, my place is not deliberate (falling for you)

by mikeycliffords



Series: carry on fic [1]
Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Carry On Fic, Carry On by Rainbow Rowell - Freeform, Enemies to Lovers, High School AU, Language, M/M, Magic AU, agatha wellbelove! calum, also if you haven’t read carry on you can still read this, baz pitch! michael, blood mention, enemies to allies to awkward friends to secret lovers to boyfriends, god okay, it should hopefully make perfect sense, minor mentions of child neglect, muke and carry on is just the elite combo, oh also there’s minor cake and some one sided malum, okay warning time that’s a good idea, penelope bunce! ashton, roommates au, simon snow! luke, sort of harry potter esque for those who haven’t read carry on, that’s more accurate, this is probably the most self indulgent fic i’ve ever written not gonna lie, very minor car accident
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:55:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27092404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikeycliffords/pseuds/mikeycliffords
Summary: god, michael's pretty sure he's going to die kissing luke hemmings, but maybe that wasn't so bad.― luke hemmings is kind of the worst chosen one who's ever been chosen, or that's what his roommate, michael says. but honestly, he isn't really sure how michael can talk when he manages to get himself kidnapped during their last year at watford school of magicks, (although, luke doesn't find out he's been kidnapped until much later.) it's not like he doesn't already have enough to worry about, with the magic-eating monster that runs around wearing his face, and his stupidly perfect boyfriend that's in love with his nemesis. now he has to worry about the fact that said nemesis doesn't even bother showing up.(or: the carry on fic.)
Relationships: Michael Clifford/Luke Hemmings
Series: carry on fic [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1977403
Comments: 13
Kudos: 12





	1. you’ve seen my face like a heart attack (don't you mind?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> luke returns to watford school of magicks for his last year, and pretty much everything that could go wrong does. his boyfriend of three years breaks up with him, there’s a magic eating monster plotting his demise, and his stupid roommate is missing. not that he’s worried about michael, he’s sure that he’s just busy with some evil plot to take over the world or something. (he’s about just as sure of that as he is that michael’s a vampire, although no one ever really believes him when he says that, either.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so !! this is my carry on fic. well, the first part of my carry on fic. michael isn’t actually in this chapter because i’m separating them based on how the actual books are separated, because otherwise it probably would’ve ended up being like, a fifty thousand word oneshot or something. so !! yeah, i really really hope you enjoy this. (also for anyone who cares: fic title is from fallingforyou by the 1975, and the chapter title is from me by the 1975.)
> 
> (also, this has been edited now !! all the small mistakes have been fixed.)
> 
> (also x2 !! this fic now has a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2NX2yycMQ8P8AMwutpK1G2?si=fpsDquMMTKaWyW15vj5HNQ) made by yours truly, and multiple graphics made by me and my lovely friend [ainslee](https://ashesonthefloor.tumblr.com/) which you can find [here](https://mikeycliffords.tumblr.com/post/632416814031372288/baz-pitch-mikey-based-on-my-carry-on-fic), [here](https://mikeycliffords.tumblr.com/post/632418692423172096), [here](https://mikeycliffords.tumblr.com/post/636723957981151232/according-to-your-heart-my-place-is-not) and [here](https://ashesonthefloor.tumblr.com/post/643216617116975104/based-on-mikeycliffords-carry-on-fic-found-here) !!)

**Luke.**

Luke didn’t like getting the bus at all. But he still got the bus every year, just because it was probably the only way he could actually get to Watford.

Well, maybe that was a lie. He could probably fly, although he didn't actually have a single idea how to summon them on demand. They just sort of… appeared whenever he was in trouble. Like when he and Ashton had been kidnapped by the Humdrum and needed to escape. And he could probably walk to Watford; He’d tried it once actually, during one particularly awful summer when he was fourteen. But he’d ended up getting cold, tired and turning back.

The Mage had taken him to Watford the first time, when he was eleven. But after that, he’d been expected to make it there himself. All of the other kids got escorted by their family members, but not Luke. He… didn't exactly have any family. The Mage was the closest he had, and he was way too busy to take him. But it was fine, he’d slain a dragon. Of course he could get a fucking bus by himself.

Honestly, he hadn’t even meant to kill that dragon. It’d just sort of… happened. But that’s what happened every time he _went off_. His magic just sort of exploded and hurt whatever was closest to him.

It’s not like it was just one bus though. It was two. And then a train, and by the time he was on the train he was absolutely exhausted and nearly nodding off as he shoveled a bar of galaxy chocolate into his mouth. He probably would’ve considered napping if there hadn’t been some guy sitting a few rows back from him who wouldn’t stop staring at him.

Maybe he was just a creep. But still, Luke didn't really fancy nodding off and getting assaulted or something. And he was far too exhausted to change carriages. He’d almost lost an arm and a leg just trying to find the seat he was currently sat in. He probably should’ve booked a ticket in advance with the money the Mage gave him to cover his journey, but… he never did. Every year it was exactly the same, except now he didn't get pitied for being a thirteen year old kid on a train by himself. At least when that’d been the case he got a seat offered to him.

Now he was eighteen years old, six foot four, and he didn't really have that ‘lost child’ look anymore.

All of the buses and the train and the taxi he knew he’d have to call because there was absolutely _no way_ that he could handle walking from the train station when he was exhausted was just… a lot of effort. It’d probably be a lot easier to just spell his way to Watford, except Luke wasn't really good at being a magician, or even having magic, or… casting spells. The only thing he was good at was waving a sword around.

(And even then, that was a little hit and miss.)

It was probably just because he didn't bother practicing his magic. But that was just because he didn't want to risk getting caught or anything. That’d be a whole mess and it’d bother the Mage since he’d have to fix everything, and Luke really didn't want to do that. So it was much easier to just ignore his magic. And the fact that he was even a magician at all. He just… ignored Watford, and everything surrounding it in its entirety. He forced himself to pretend like none of it was real, and it was all some elaborate dream that he’d made up to distract himself from the fact that he was an unwanted kid with absolutely no future.

He’d already made the mistake of thinking about the World of Mages too much over the summer.

After his first there year, Luke had spent pretty much the entire summer thinking about it, just counting down the days until he got to go back. He thought about everyone from school that he could, Ashton, Calum, the Mage, even fucking _Michael_. He tried his hardest to memorise the details of their faces, what they sounded like. At one point he even found himself having a conversation with himself and pretending like Ashton was talking back to him, trying his best to imagine what he’d say in response.

He thought over every single detail until they were pretty much permanently imprinted in his mind, from the grounds to the towers. God, he even tried his best to memorise the taste of the teas and the puddings that they served, but maybe that was just because he longed for some decent food whilst being half starved in a care home all summer.

And then finally, he started to think about magic. Just magic in general, and then the fact that Luke was _actually_ magic. He didn't feel magic at all, honestly. It felt like a fever dream. Or maybe he felt like it _was_ happening, just not to him. Luke didn't feel very much like the chosen one, or the main character of this story. He sort of felt… disconnected from himself, and magic, and the World of Mages in general. Like he didn't quite fit in right.

He always made himself sick after daydreaming of Watford. At the end of every stupidly long summer day, Luke was still alone in the care home. Watford felt like a million miles away, and sort of not real at all.

At one point he’d actually managed to convince himself that it was all really just a dream he’d thought up.

It was just like when he used to daydream about his parents. Maybe his dad would be a footballer or something, and his mum would be some posh model type, or an actress. They’d come to the children’s home one day and explain what had happened, that they’d had to give him up because they were far too young for a baby, and there was no way they’d be able to afford him. “But we always missed you, Luke,” maybe they’d say. And then they’d take him away to live in a mansion far away from the children's home, and they’d be a family. Luke would have a family.

It all seemed like complete bullshit, just like the idea that Luke spent most of his time at a magical boarding school with a roommate that was a vampire.

(And Michael definitely was a vampire, even if he’d never admit it. Or if nobody believed Luke when he told them.)

But anyway. He’d tortured himself all summer long with daydreams of Watford when he was twelve, and then he’d made a promise never to do it to himself again. So now… during the summer, he just _didn't_. He didn't think about Watford, or Ashton, or even Calum, even if he very much wanted to. He tried his best to keep his mind from wandering to where it wanted to linger most, and on the very last day of summer, Luke let the World of Mages come back to him on its own, whenever it was ready.

And whenever it did, he was always ready for it.

Nobody loved magic like Luke did, he knew that for sure. None of the other magicians know what it was like to live without magic, they went home for the summer and they still had it, they were completely surrounded by it ― since magicians never gave up their children, they always had parents. That’s why Luke’s situation was so weird. He went home, and he was surrounded by Normals in a fucking care home, and he had to deal with living like he’d been stuck in a coma having the wildest dream for the past seven years.

It hadn’t exactly been easy the past summer though, avoiding thinking about the World of Mages at all.

Luke wished that he was anywhere except the care home that the Mage had shipped him off to at the end of term. Luke wasn't safe, he knew he wasn't. The fucking Humdrum could just summon him whenever he wanted to now, just like he’d done to at the end of last term.

How was he supposed to know that wouldn’t end up happening again? It wasn't like it was an unrealistic concern. It’d probably be the best time for the Humdrum to actually attack Luke. He was completely vulnerable over the summer; he couldn’t exactly whip out his sword or cast a spell to defend himself when he was surrounded by Normals. And plus, he wasn't that great at… any of that. Usually Ashton saved his arse, but the Mage banned him from having _any_ contact with Luke over the summer. But the Humdrum didn't attack during the summer. Luke was constantly on edge, just waiting for an attack. And it never came.

The Insidious Humdrum never turned up. And while it probably should be a positive thing, sometimes a little part of Luke found himself hoping that the Humdrum would attack one day during the summer, just so he’d have confirmation that he hadn’t made any of it up.

But even during his last summer where he’d have to miss the World of Mages, Luke didn't let himself think about the good parts for a moment. Sure, he was constantly thinking about whether today would be the day the Humdrum finally killed him, but he never let his mind wander to the things that he actually missed.

He had a list written down somewhere. Or he had at one point. He was pretty sure he’d written it during the summer where he turned twelve, desperate to memorise all of his favourite things about Watford, not giving them a single chance to slip from his mind. Every summer, Luke refused to let himself touch the list ― well, the metaphorical list ― until he was almost there, almost home. He had a pretty good tradition now, he ran through the items in the list one by one, like he was gently tipping his toes into the bottomless ocean that was magic. It was… a much better alternative to just getting sucked back into it all at once. This way, the magic sort of returned to him like waves gently flowing over something, instead of crashing against him all at once and completely overwhelming him.

He probably should’ve crossed a few things off of his list by now, but he didn't really want to change it. It felt sort of sacred, even though it was a lot of importance to give to a stupid list that’d been written by a scared twelve year old kid in a battered blue ballpoint pen.

Luke started running through the list when he was about an hour away from school, giving himself plenty of time to familiarise himself with everything. Although… he’d sort of struggled with _not_ thinking about Watford since he’d gotten on the train. He’d just tried to avoid thinking about his list.

No. 1 ― Sour Cherry Scones.

Luke was pretty sure he hadn’t even tried scones before Watford. He probably hadn’t even known how to properly pronounce the word. But at Watford there were these freshly baked cherry scones that were served at breakfast, and in the afternoon with tea. They were just perfect. Even more perfect than Calum, honestly, and that was pretty hard to achieve. So that’s why they were number one on the list.

Whenever there was an opportunity to eat them, he couldn't pass them up. He ate them until he was sick. One time Ashton had tried to calculate how many of the cherry scones he’d eaten since starting at Watford, but he’d gotten bored before he’d gotten to the answer. And Luke had a habit of sneaking down to the kitchens at night ― it was on the way to the catacombs, which was where he’d spent most of his fifth year, stalking Michael ― so there wasn't really any way to know. 

No. 2 ― Ashton Irwin. 

Something else had that spot originally, Luke wasn't too sure what it was. Maybe the chicken pie he’d had for tea when he’d first arrived at Watford. It was definitely that.

But a few years ago he’d decided he could probably limit himself to just one food, otherwise he’d probably have to start going through his list the second he got home. He didn't exactly eat very well over the summer, and Watford’s meals were a fucking dream. 

So, Ashton got the second spot.

He should've probably ranked Calum above Ashton. Calum was his boyfriend, after all. But Ashton was his best friend; he’d befriended him in his very first week of school, somehow, during their Magic Words lesson. 

He’d be lying if he didn't say he’d been intimidated by Ashton when he first met him. He was taller than him, with curly hair and hazel eyes. And he knew who Luke was before he’d even walked into the room, apparently. But then again, everyone had sort of known who Luke was, which was mildly terrifying since Luke didn't even know who he was.

Ashton was trying to help him with an assignment or something, and Luke was pretty sure he’d just been staring wordlessly at him, shocked that someone actually wanted to speak to him.

“You’re Luke Hemmings.” He stated. It wasn't a question, Ashton wasn't asking. He knew who he was. “My mum told me that you’d be starting this year. She says you’re really powerful, probably even more powerful than me.” _Probably the Chosen One, the most powerful mage in the entire history of the World of Mages_ had been sitting on the edge of his tongue, but he hadn’t actually said it.

Luke had just nodded, continuing to stare wordlessly at him, like a fucking fish or something. 

“It’s rude to stare, you know? Even at your friends.” Ashton turned back to the assignment, writing something down with a pen. When Luke had found out he was a mage, he’d expected to arrive at Watford and be forced to write with a fucking quill and a pot of ink or something, but thankfully that hadn’t happened. 

“We’re friends?” He’d always been going along with whatever Ashton had said, even back then.

“I’m helping you with the lesson, aren't I?” Luke hadn't realised that at Watford being helped with your lesson meant you were automatically friends with someone. But there were plenty of opportunities for him to be helped, he wasn't the smartest. 

He nodded. “Yeah, well… I thought that was just because I was thick.”

Ashton snorted, brushing a hand through his curls. “Well, yeah. You are. But it’s fine, so is everyone. I’m not helping everyone though, just you. Because I like you.”

From then on they were friends. Ashton had just… decided. But it was nice. Luke hadn't ever had a friend before, everyone he’d known from the care home had been complete chavs and just awful, so for the first eleven years of his life he’d stuck to himself and avoided everyone. 

“You hold your wand backwards, by the way. It’s no wonder your spells are a little messy. You’ll end up cursing yourself or something.”

If Luke said he didn't miss Ashton every summer, he’d be lying. Maybe he missed him even more than the cherry scones. He could probably have cherry scones during the summer if he really wanted to, they’d probably just be more bitter than sour. But the Mage forbade anyone from writing or calling him during the summer. He had to be cut off from everyone. 

Ashton was a bit of a troublemaker though. (Well, not really. He just didn't like being told what to do. It was always Luke that got shit for being a troublemaker, but really trouble just found him. He was like a magnet for trouble, whereas Ashton knew the rules, he knew what to do and what not to do, and just blatantly ignored them.)

He always found some way to talk to him, usually by possessing some guy that Luke walked past on the street. It was kind of frightening, actually. He wouldn't say he enjoyed being screamed at by the old man that worked in the shop whilst he was in the middle of trying to buy a bar of chocolate and a bottle of lucozade.

He’d asked Ashton never to possess anyone to talk to him again unless there was some kind of emergency, and thankfully he hadn't. 

No. 3 ― The Football Pitch.

Luke didn't play on the team. Michael did, of course he fucking did. He and Calum had been teammates since their first year. Luke didn’t have enough time to actually play on the team anyway, he was always too busy with a mission for the Mage or drama, or trying to spend whatever small amount of free time split between studying so he didn't fail his classes, and keeping an eye on whatever… evil shit Michael was up to that year.

Plus he wasn’t good enough to play.

But when he did get to play, even if it was just for an hour on the weekend or something, it was great. There was a perfect pitch with nice grass, and it was the only flat part of the ground. It was surrounded by trees that sort of framed the pitch, perfect for sitting under and watching the matches.

He always tried to watch the matches, just to support Calum. And it meant watching Michael too, which he didn't really enjoy. Not that he was… bad to watch. But Luke didn’t like watching him, the little tosser. He had enough people fixated on him.

No. 4 ― The School Uniform.

Maybe it was a little dumb to like his uniform that much, but he’d never had one before. Wearing his uniform when he was eleven was the first time he’d ever actually worn a blazer and a tie, and it was nice. He felt… important, and like a part of a team. Until Michael walked into the classroom, taller than him and fucking posher than everyone else. 

No. 5 ― His Room.

Technically, it was _their_ room, but Luke didn’t like thinking about Michael. Fuck Michael. He definitely didn’t miss Michael. 

When you started at Watford, this thing called the Crucible picked a roommate for you, and that was that. You never got to change. You got a room too, and you never had to move, which was pretty fun since Luke was used to moving to a different care home every summer. But at Watford, he got to put up his posters and leave some things there so they’d be safe over the holidays, and… he never had to take them back. Or, he didn't until the end of his eighth year.

It’d be great, except Luke didn’t particularly like sharing a room with someone who had been trying to kill him since he was eleven.

They did have the best room in all of Watford though, so maybe that wasn't the worst thing in the world. They lived in Mummers House, which was on the edge of the school grounds. Their room was at the very top, in a sort of turret thing that looked over the moat that surrounded the school. It was bigger than all of the other rooms, because it’d be too small to be divided up. And it used to be a room for important people like staff or visitors, so they had their own en suite.

So the room was good. Just not the roommate. He’d rather share with a fucking numpty than Michael Clifford. 

Thinking about Michael kind of stressed him out, so he stopped going through his list. Maybe Luke should’ve taken his room off of the list just so he didn’t have to think about him. Michael was just… the worst. 

He didn't have that many items left on the list anyway. It only went up to ten, with Calum being the last. But maybe he should’ve taken Calum off of the list too. 

He used to keep Calum on the end of the list to save him for last, just because he was the best. The thing he missed most. But maybe that wasn't the case anymore.

He was just a little too good to be true. His smile was a little too perfect, and his curls sort of fell perfectly into his face, and even the way he fucking spoke was perfect. He _was_ too good to be true, and far too good for Luke. Luke wasn't really sure what he deserved, maybe he just needed someone that was as messy as him. 

At the end of last term, just before he and Ashton had gotten stolen by the Humdrum, he’d seen Calum and Michael together in the Wavering Wood. Holding hands. He’d sort of always sensed something like that between them, but he’d thought that Calum was a good enough guy to never betray him like that. 

He hadn't gotten a chance to even speak to Calum about it. He’d gotten kidnapped, and then sent away, and Calum wasn't like Ashton, he didn't break the rules and try to talk to Luke as many times as he could throughout the summer. So… things were weird now, and he wasn't sure what was going on.

Honestly, Luke wasn't even sure if he’d missed Calum at all. He should definitely consider taking him off of his list altogether. (Although, it was his last year at Watford, so it wasn't like he’d ever be going through this list again.)

* * *

Luke didn't like the way his taxi driver was staring at him. 

He was sitting in the backseat, with his bag taking up the seat next to him. It wasn't like the driver was that much of a creep, but he just kept _looking_ at him. Luke wasn't really the biggest fan of people that looked at him.

Maybe that was why he didn't like Michael. He was always watching him, as if he was waiting for him to turn his back so he could fucking bite him or something. (Except he technically couldn't, otherwise he'd be cast out of Watford by the roommate’s anathema before you could say football.)

The car hit a bump in the road, and Luke lurched forward, head nearly bumping against the driver’s seat.

“Put your seat belt on,” the driver snapped, and Luke did as he was told. He usually didn't like putting his seat belt on, just because he'd much prefer being able to open the door and escape onto the road at any given moment. But he also didn't really want to die today.

They hit another pothole, and he started to get that odd feeling in his stomach, like when something was going wrong. Luke’s gut was usually pretty trustworthy. Maybe it was a magician thing, or something to do with the fact that he was the Chosen One. They were on a dirt road, why was that weird? Had he been down this road before?

He glanced at the driver, eyes seeming to focus and unfocus as he shifted in front of him. His skin seemed to look greener and greener and his nose looked like it’s been hit with a frying pan. 

Then he opened his mouth to sing along to whatever was on the radio and Luke zeroed in on his gnarled teeth. Goblin. How fun. 

He didn't wait for the goblin to attack him, he just started mumbling the spell to summon the Sword of Mages, placing his hand on his hip. It wasn't exactly, his sword, or maybe it was, but it came whenever he summoned it and that was enough for Luke.

The goblin must've heard him casting because his eyes met Luke’s in the mirror and he winked.

If Michael were here, he’d probably list off every single spell that Luke could’ve used in this situation, whilst also simultaneously sitting beside him, wearing that stupid fucking smirk and refusing to help at all. But Luke didn't end up using a spell. As soon as his sword appeared in his hand he slashed it across the front seat, arm smacking against the car window. At least it managed to cut off the goblin’s head, and the headrest with it.

Luke probably should've unbuckled his seat belt before killing the goblin, because now he was stuck in a tangle of trying to unbuckle it whilst fighting his way to the front seat ― which, okay, it wouldn't be that difficult, but Luke was pretty tall, and not really the best at moving his body. He got there in the end though, managing to try and wiggle through the gap and take control of the wheel. 

It would have been fine, but Luke remembered he didn't know how to drive.

It wasn't like Watford offered driving lessons. If they did, maybe he’d know. He tried his best to take control of the wheel, and put his foot on the gas, but he must've pressed the wrong button because the car came to a stop, and Luke nearly went through the windscreen. 

It was okay, he didn't. An airbag smashed into his face, and he felt the unmistakable feeling of blood on his hands. Luke wasn't sure if it was his or the goblin’s. Probably a mixture of both. 

He managed to get the car door open, glancing at himself in the mirror as he got out. He was a bit of a mess, covered in blood and goblin guts. The car engine was still running, but Luke didn't bother to turn it off. He just reached into the backseat through the window and grabbed his bag, tugging it over his shoulder. 

He wiped his hands on his grey trackie bottoms, which wasn't the smartest idea because it only ended up making himself look worse. God, he needed to spell himself clean or something. Luke didn't really fancy turning up to Watford looking like he’d just murdered a family of five in cold blood. 

He pulled his wand out, pointing it at the car. (Usually, he wouldn't bother getting rid of the evidence, but it was kind of a… big mess. Too big and too noticeable to just leave.) 

“ ** _Out, out, damned spot!_** ” He hadn't ever used that spell, but he’d seen Ashton use it a couple of times. It didn't do much besides clean up a little bit of the blood on his bottoms. “ ** _Take it away!_** ” Sparks flew out of the wand, but there wasn't any evidence besides that that he'd even cast a spell. 

“Oh fuck me,” he mumbled, running his hands through his curls and wincing when he felt the amount of blood in his hair, started to clump up and dry. He’d definitely need a shower before dinner. That is, if Ashton didn't just spell him clean. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to feel the magic in him, and sort of… control it like that. Luke wasn't really sure what his own magic felt like, besides hot. Right now his arm just felt like it was burning. “ ** _Into thin air!_** ” He shouted, jutting his wand out to see if that made any sort of a difference. 

The taxi disappeared, and so did the goblin’s head which had tumbled onto the ground when Luke had opened the door. But… the fence that the car had crashed into also disappeared. And the road. 

Oh well. That wasn't Luke’s problem. Someone could just undisappear the road. Probably.

* * *

It only took Luke just over an hour to get to Watford. 

He was still covered in dried goblin blood and he kind of felt like his legs were on the verge of dropping off, but he’d made it. Usually the taxi driver dropped him off outside the gates, unable to see the real Watford since it was concealed by a glamour, but obviously that hadn’t been an option since the driver decided it’d be a nice idea to try and murder him.

He walked over to the iron gate that surrounded the school, placing his hand on the bar to let it feel his magic. Luke didn't pretend he knew how it worked ― honestly, he didn't know how anything worked ― but if you had magic, if you weren't a Normal, the gate would swing open for you.

One of the Mage’s Men was stationed just inside the gate. He glanced up and down him, eyes zeroing in on the blood.

“You alright?” Luke asked, trying to be polite.

“Looks like I should be asking you that question…” 

Luke just shrugged, only offering “Goblin,” as an explanation for why he looked like that. 

He nodded in understanding, murmuring something under his breath. It must've been a cleaning spell, because the dried blood that Luke was coated in seemed to evaporate into the air. “Off you go, then.”

Luke walked past him, and as soon as he was out of the other man’s eye line, he took off in a sprint. There wasn't anyone out on the Great Lawn, or anywhere really. Luke was probably one of the first students back, but that wasn't that surprising. He usually was.

It was fine though, he’d live at Watford all of the time if he could. 

He didn’t stop running until he was at the top of Mummers House, pushing the door open with his hand. He greeted the room with a small smile, quickly growing into a grin. Luke just… really loved being at Watford. Especially in his room. The few days before Michael returned to school were always the best.

He let himself fall onto his bed, pressing his face against the pillows. The beds at Watford were like a dream, completely the opposite of the bed he’d been sleeping in for the past summer. And Luke let his guard down for practically the first time since leaving Watford last term, until the door rattled and he jumped up.

The Sword of Mages appeared in his hand before Ashton even opened the door.

“You shouldn't be in here,” Luke mumbled, dropping his sword. There was a rule in Watford against going into each other's room, and a spell that prevented anyone of the opposite gender even entering your bedroom, but Ashton didn't care.

His best friend just shrugged, sitting down on Michael’s bed. 

“If Michael finds out you’ve touched his bed, he’s gonna kill you,” Luke grinned, sitting back on his bed and twisting his wrist a certain way, willing the sword to vanish. Michael was a little particular about anyone touching his things without permission. One time, Luke had used some of his shampoo by accident and he’d threatened to magic all of his hair away.

“Fuck Michael,” Ashton snorted. “You look like shit, mate.”

Luke let out a laugh. God he couldn't remember the last time he actually laughed. Probably right before him and Ashton got stolen by the Humdrum, and it hadn’t even been an actual laugh, just a bitter forced one when he’d looked at Calum and Michael holding hands, unaware they were being watched. “Fuck off,” he mumbled. “I ran into a goblin on the way here.”

The last time he’d seen Ashton, it’d been a bit of a mess. Luke had been a bundle of spells and rags, practically falling apart and bleeding from every place you probably could bleed from. They’d just escaped the Humdrum, bursting into the White Chapel in the middle of the end of year ceremony. Ashton had been crying ― god, was that the first time he’d ever seen Ashton cry? ― and his mum was there, because everyone’s mum was there, and she’d started screaming at the Mage whilst standing in front of his younger siblings so they couldn't see the mess that their brother and his best mate were. 

And then Ashton’s mum spelled their entire family home. (Honestly, it was probably just to their car, or maybe even outside the door, but it was still a really dramatic exit.)

Ashton sighed, nose scrunching up. “Who shit in your Weetabix?”

“ _Mitchy_ ,” he huffed, running a hand through his hair. Mitchy Collins was Ashton’s roommate, and he was convinced that he was the devil incarnate. He’d said once that he’d trade him for a million evil, plotting vampires ― or as Luke called him: Michael ― if it meant he never had to see Mitchy again.

“What’s he done now?”

Ashton just glared at the ceiling. “Besides come back?”

Luke let out a laugh, glad that things were sort of normal with Ashton. Although he was kind of just waiting until he got all serious and made Luke talk about what was going on with Calum, and how he was after their incident with the Humdrum.

But Luke didn't like talking. Or thinking. His brain was permanently in aeroplane mode and that was how he liked it.

“In Mitchy’s defence, it’s not like he can help being a little… manic. He’s half pixie.”

Ashton raised his head from Michael’s pillow just so Luke could see him rolling his eyes. “Oh yeah, I fucking know. My entire room is covered in pixie dust, of course he’s half fucking pixie.” Ashton regularly claimed that he was allergic to pixie dust and needed to change roommates, but Luke was pretty sure he was just lying.

Luke laughed, and Ashton did too. And then they were both quiet for a few moments. Luke stood up, moving over his dresser and pulling out a pair of jeans and a Watford Football sweatshirt (he was pretty sure it was one of Calum’s that he’d stolen last Christmas.)

“You’re too thin,” Ashton mumbled, looking pointedly at him.

“It’s just the tracksuit,” Luke mumbled, pulling his clothes off and starting to get changed. He and Ashton were like brothers, they’d seen each other naked before. It was never awkward with them.

“Hurry up, it’s almost teatime.”

The dining hall was pretty much empty apart from them, as well as a few younger kids, maybe first and second years. The first years all stared at him for a few minutes, all trying to get a good look at him.

Pretty much every magician knew who he was, even before Luke had even known. Fuck, he wasn't sure he even did know that much about himself. There was a famous prophecy written about him ― or everyone thought it was about him, he wasn't sure.

( _And one will come to end us. And one will bring his fall. Let the greatest power of powers reign, May it save us all._ )

That was him. The Chosen One. Luke Hemmings didn't feel very… chosen.

He was already a bit of a freak, just because no mage had ever been born to Normals before, but Luke must've been, because magicians didn't make a habit of giving up their kids. Magic was too precious, and the only way a kid was a ‘magical orphan’ was if their parents died or something, and even then they almost always ended up living with family. They never got dropped off at a children’s home like Luke had, with the only link to his parents being his name sewn into the blue blanket he was bundled up in.

Luke really wished nobody knew who he was. It wasn't exactly a great thing, and it made making friends at Watford pretty difficult. Most people just liked him because he was the Chosen One, there was only really Ash and Calum that didn't. And even then, he wasn't so sure.

Luke tried his best to ignore the stares, and chatted to Ashton about each of their summers whilst he helped himself to half a dozen cherry scones. (Ashton’s summer had been better than his, as always. He’d spent it in America, visiting his girlfriend who lived over there. Luke didn't care that much about the details, he was just a little bitter that it’d been far more interesting than his own.)

He wasn't that hungry, so he left after a short while, heading back up to bed.

It was always a little weird falling asleep without Michael in their room. He almost missed the tense feeling in his chest he got whenever he was around him, always on edge and borderline terrified that he could attack him at any moment. 

But maybe he should enjoy the peace and quiet. It’d probably only be a matter of time before he showed up.

* * *

Luke let out a groan as he woke up, arm numb from how he’d been laying on it. He rolled over, almost jumping from the fright when he noticed Ashton sitting on his desk. 

“You can't just let yourself into my room without knocking,” he mumbled.

“It’s the middle of the afternoon,” Ashton gave him a fond smile, setting the book he’d been reading down. He waved his wand, saying a spell, which caused Luke’s curtains to fly open, lighting up his room. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, hiding behind his arm. “You’re a cruel, cruel man.”

“And you sleep like a corpse, by the way. I knocked. Three times.”

Luke just rolled his eyes in response, managing to muster up the energy to get out of bed and walk over to his bathroom. 

He shut the door behind him, glancing in the mirror and trying to decide whether to shower or not. He could probably use it, his hair was all tangled and knotted, and his face was sweaty and just… gross. He was pretty sure he’d had a bad dream or something, because he felt like he’d been tossing and turning all night. But he wasn't sure, he couldn't ever really remember his dreams. 

He stripped out of his clothes, debating whether to take off the gold cross he always wore. Luke wasn't religious or anything, it was a talisman. Calum had gotten tired of Luke stressing over the fact that Michael was definitely a vampire and definitely planning on eating him, so he’d given him the gold cross for Halloween when they were fourteen. It’d been passed down in his family, some sort of posh relic. Luke wasn't too sure. He was used to wearing it all the time anyway, and fiddling with it had become sort of a nervous habit. So he didn't take it off. 

Someone banged on the bathroom door. “I’m taking a shower,” he yelled, pulling his socks off and stepping into it. 

“Hurry up, we’re going to miss dinner!” He yelled, tapping on the door again. Ashton mumbled something else, and Luke didn't hear him.

“Luke, did you hear me? I said Calum’s back.”

He turned on the water, completely ignoring Ashton.

Luke wasn't sure how to talk to Calum anymore. The last time he’d seen and spoken to him ― which had been almost three months ago ― he’d been holding hands with his nemesis. (And no, describing Michael Clifford as his nemesis wasn't an over exaggeration. It was the truth.)

The dining hall was half full that day, a shocking comparison from last night. But it made sense. Term officially started tomorrow, people would be a little silly not to get there a day early to settle in. 

He sat down opposite Ashton, helping himself to a couple of ham and cheese rolls. Whilst he ate, he scanned the room for Calum. He was pretty sure he wasn't in the dining hall. He couldn't really imagine him being there and not sitting at their table. That’d just be weird. 

A couple of guys that Luke barely recognised from a few of their lessons walked by, and Ashton nodded at them, giving them a polite smile. “Alright, Ash?”

“Alright, fellas?” He answered. One of them nodded at him, but Luke just avoided looking at them. He didn't really speak to many people in school, besides Ashton and Calum. And Michael, but that was only to remind him that he was a tosser. 

“You have too many friends,” Luke mumbled, shoving a sandwich into his mouth.

Ashton just shrugged. “I saw him with his parents, by the way. Out of your window.”

Luke frowned, giving him a confused look and swallowing his food down before speaking. “You saw who?” Michael?

“Calum.”

“Oh.”

“I can go get him if you want,” he offered, and Luke frowned and picked up another roll, taking a bite. 

“Nah, it's fine.”

Ashton nodded, looking surprised, but he didn't question it anymore.

A little girl screamed and Luke whipped out his sword, fully prepared to attack someone.

“Jesus fuck, Luke. Put that away.” Ashton rolled his eyes, probably debating taking the sword away from Luke. They were both staring at the little girl, who was staring at some sort of figure. She was fading in and out, like Princess Leia’s hologram in Star Wars, and when the girl reached out to grab her, the figure faded completely. 

A few of her friends hugged her, and Luke wasn't sure if the girl was laughing or crying. 

“She got a Visiting. Lucky kid.”

Luke just gave him a confused look, letting his sword vanish and turning his attention away from the crying kid. (She was definitely crying. What type of crying, he wasn't so sure, she could very well be crying because she was happy. But she was definitely crying.)

“What’s a Visiting?” Luke asked, nose scrunched up. He took another bite of his lunch.

“Luke, you know about this. We studied it in Magickal History last year.” Still, Ashton probably knew he had no fucking clue what he was talking about, since most stuff they learned about in class went in one ear and out the other when it came to Luke. “The _Veil_ is lifting?” He prompted.

When Luke just shook his head, he sighed and continued. “ _And on the Twentieth Turn when the year wanes, and night and day sit in peace across the table ― the Veil will lift. And any who have light to cast may cross it, though they may not tarry. Greet them with joy and with trust, for their mouths, though dead, speak truth._ ”

Ashton was using his quoting voice, something that happened quite often when they talked about stuff like this. (Meaning the majority of the magical stuff that Luke was completely and utterly confused about.)

“You’re not helping,” Luke pouted, finishing his third ham and cheese roll. 

“The Veil is lifting,” Ashton stressed. “Every twenty years dead people can talk to the living if they have a message that really needs to be said.”

Luke’s brows scrunched up as he debated having a fourth roll or not. “Right… I thought that was a myth.”

Ashton chucked. “You think everything’s a myth, mate.”

“I know that the Tooth Fairy isn't a myth,” he defended, deciding against it and sipping his orange juice instead. 

“Well, the Veil isn't either. What else is gonna keep souls from walking among us all year long?”

Ashton had a really bad habit of speaking about stuff to do with the World of Mages like Luke definitely should know what it all meant. But he didn't. Luke struggled even keeping up with the Normal world’s lore, let alone a whole other world.

“So these visitors aren't like… bad or anything?”

His friend just shook his head, buttering a sandwich for himself. “I mean, sometimes they cause a little bit of drama. Some of the stuff they come out with can be a bit bad, like affairs or murder. But they’re harmless, just as long as you’re not scared of the truth.”

* * *

Luke was alone when he finally saw Calum.

He’s laid out on the lawn, picking apart daisies with his fingers. He heard someone clearing his throat and it took a moment to really take in Calum.

He really was the prettiest. He was wearing a white shirt ― maybe on purpose? Luke had always told him how pretty he looks in white ― and some jeans, as well as his Vans. Maybe that was a new pair of Vans actually, Luke was pretty sure they looked kind of different than his usual pair. 

His hair was longer, too. And he was a little taller, but still not quite as tall as Luke. He seemed different though. Or maybe he was just acting differently around Luke. 

He smiled, but Luke could kind of tell that it was a little forced. Or at the very least, nervous. He didn't really want Calum to be nervous around him, but it wasn't like either of them could help it.

He sat up, running his hand through his hair and making sure there wasn't anything unfortunate tangled up in his curls, like a couple of twigs or bits of grass. “Hey,” he said, offering him a small smile.

“Hi, Luke,” Calum said, sitting beside him.

“How was your summer?”

Calum just looked at him before answering. “It was… good. Quiet.”

That was probably because Luke wasn't around to ruin it like he ruined everything.

“Did you travel?”

He shrugged. “I spent a week in Paris, and then another in Amsterdam with Mali.” Mali was Calum’s older sister. She was five years older than them, around twenty two, and didn't really like Luke that much. Or he didn't think she did, anyway. She’d joked a couple of times that she thought Calum and Ashton were far more suited to being together than Calum and Luke were, although those comments hadn't felt too much like jokes at the time. 

“That’s nice. How is she?”

“Mali? She's good.”

Luke just nodded, trying not to think about how fucking awkward this was. 

He stopped himself from mumbling bitterly about how he hoped Calum and Mali had plenty of fun in Amsterdam and Paris, probably looking around all the fancy art galleries and basking in the amazingness of all the art. Sometimes Luke thought that Calum would be better off with Michael. At least he could pronounce Van Gogh’s name properly, and he liked photography, apparently. He’d probably like all the dumb art museums. 

If only he wasn't pure evil.

Luke realised that he must’ve looked absolutely fuming, because Calum sighed. “Look, I can go if you want me to.”

“No,” he shook his head. “Stay. I’m glad to see you.” 

Calum looked doubtful. “You haven't even looked at me since I’ve sat down.”

Luke did, and he offered him a small smile, trying his best to think about anything other than how perfect Calum was. He was far too perfect for him. 

“Look, Luke. I know you say me and Micha―”

He cut him off, shaking his head and resisting the urge to force a laugh. “I didn't see anything, Cal.”

“Oh sure,” he nodded, practically mocking the idea that Luke actually didn't see them.

“I mean, maybe I saw you.” He definitely wasn't doing this right. “In the Wood. With… him.” Luke couldn't bring himself to actually say Michael’s name right now. It was like a curse. He was pretty sure if he said it around Calum, Michael would appear out of thin air and steal him away to his vampire lair. (All vampires had a lair, right?)

“It doesn't matter, though,” Luke continued. “I know you, and I know you _wouldn't_. Not with him, anyway. It was months ago. It doesn't matter now.”

Calum just frowned, looking more confused than anything. He always widened his eyes whenever he was confused, and Luke had to stop himself from melting. He had lovely brown eyes, and they looked sort of golden in the sunlight, like they were now. 

“But… shouldn't we talk about this?”

They should, but Luke shook his head because he didn't want to, and his and Calum’s relationship had never really been about what was for the best for them. They’d been together for three years, since they were fifteen, but… maybe they weren't really even together properly. 

“I’d rather just move on,” he lied, taking his hand and squeezing it. “It’s really good to see you.” He smiled, and Calum almost smiled back at him.

“It’s good to see you too, Luke.”

Luke spent an hour or so with Calum, and when he got back to his room he almost thought Michael was sprawled out on his bed ― which was his first mistake, because Michael didn’t exactly sprawl, he sort of just stretched out in one spot ― but it was just Ashton. He had a book open, eyes scanning a spot about halfway across the page. “So you and Calum talked?” He asked.

“Yep,” he nodded. Luke sounded a lot more pissed off than he actually was. He didn't think he was very pissed off, anyway. He just sort of felt a little numb about the entire situation.

“Did he explain? About what happened with him and Michael?”

He shook his head, curls falling into his face. “No. I told him not to.”

Ashton set his book down, folding over the corner of the page so he didn't lose it. “You don't want to know why your boyfriend was having a cheeky snog with a vampire in the middle of the Wood?”

Luke laughed, he actually laughed. “They weren’t fucking snogging. They were just holding hands.”

Ashton raised a brow. “Well, if I saw KayKay holding hands with Michael, I’d definitely want an explanation.”

Luke laughed again. Maybe he was going insane. “You know, me too. I mean, first of all I’d want to know how she got here, since she lives in fucking Texas. And then I’d―”

“ _Luke_.” Ashton cut him off, quite rudely, if you asked Luke. But no one ever did.

“I don't care, Ash. Whatever it was, it’s behind me and Calum now.” 

“I wonder if it’s behind Michael,” Ashton said, and Luke almost thought he was going to say, “I wonder if it’s _really_ behind Calum,” because honestly, that was what he was wondering. 

“Fuck Michael,” Luke mumbled, sitting down on his bed.

The thing about Michael, was that he did pretty much anything he could to get to him. So Luke might as well just not let it bother him. He’d come up with loads of fascinating new ways to get on his nerves as soon as he actually got to Watford, which could be any minute now.

Most people were already there. No one wanted to miss the big welcome back picnic that they had on the Great Lawn the night before the first day of term. Plus, it’d be an awful rush getting there in the morning. You probably wouldn't even have time for a cherry scone before your first class. 

Michael had never missed the picnic before, but maybe he would this year. It was a nice thought. 

Luke couldn't see Michael anywhere. 

It wasn't like he was too hard to miss. He was tall, with bright red hair ― he cast a spell on himself to dye it, usually, although Luke was pretty sure that was just an excuse to make a comment about how Normal hair dye was the worst ― and usually always hovered around Luke’s side to make fun of him or be a dick.

But he wasn't anywhere to be seen.

He was sitting on the lawn with Calum and Ashton, picking the pastry off of a pork pie and trying to convince himself to eat something. He wasn’t really hungry, and his mind was too busy trying to suck in everything that was going on. This was it, his last picnic. Well, his last ‘Welcome Back’ picnic. His last year at Watford…

Plus, Luke was also sort of busy looking over his shoulder every three minutes, waiting for Michael to appear and ruin his night. (Or maybe his plan was to ruin Luke’s night by making him stress out wondering how he was going to ruin it.)

The sun started to set, and the younger kids all went in, probably to get an early night before bed. Or, like Luke did on his first day of term, end up staying awake all night long because they felt sick with anxiety over what was going to happen the next day.

Ashton spelled his jacket to be a blanket for them, and Calum held Luke’s hand first this time, sitting down next to him. 

“I should go get my crystal ball and tell your fortunes,” Ashton said, receiving a groan from both of them.

Luke just shook his head a little. “I’ll save you the trouble. You’ll see me covered in blood, probably finally meeting my demise, and Calum’ll be somewhere nearby looking pretty.” Ashton and Calum gave him an identical frown, and Luke just sighed because he’d heard them lecture him far too many times about joking about his own inevitable, painful death at the hands of the Humdrum.

But apart from that, the night felt fine. Perfect even, and Luke didn't make a habit of using that word too often. Nothing eventful really happened, besides someone’s dead sister crossing through the Veil. She told her brother that her death wasn't his fault and then promptly disappeared, but Luke didn’t pay much attention. (Calum had been holding onto his sword hand, so he hadn’t automatically summoned it when someone screamed.) 

Eventually, someone started to sing the school song, and everyone joined in. Even Calum, and he didn’t usually. He wouldn't admit it to anyone except Luke, but he was sort of self conscious about his voice. (Although maybe he’d told Michael that, too.)

He was happy, and his mind was distracted from wondering where Michael was for pretty much the first time since they got back to Watford. It finally felt like he was home, properly this time. And he was so happy.

He woke up a few hours later after tucking himself into bed, and he thought at first that it was Michael arriving. 

“Michael?” He couldn't see him at all, so he tried again. “Ashton?” No, he would have said something by now. “Calum…?” It was a shot in the dark, but it had happened before, when his boyfriend was sad, lonely and needed a cuddle. 

But no one came, and no one answered. 

Maybe it was the Humdrum, although Luke had never been attacked in his room before. It wouldn't surprise him though. Sneaking in and trying to kill him whilst he slept was exactly the shit that the Humdrum would try and pull. He sat up, and the lights turned on by themselves. Sometimes Luke’s magic was so powerful that even if he thought about something, it happened. But only when he was stressed or scared, like now.

(Michael had once made a snarky comment about him… leaking magic. But Penny had said it was more like his magic was some sort of never ending match. Most mages only ha a certain amount of magic, there was a _limit_ , one that they couldn’t push past. But Luke didn't have a limit, his little match of magic just kept burning and burning and it seemed like he’d never run out.) 

He heard a rustling outside, and a few hushed voices, but he didn’t see anything. Luke stood up, walking over to the window. It was open, and he didn’t remember leaving it open. Usually he’d blame Michael for it, because sometimes he opened it just to piss him off, but he wasn't here. 

“ ** _Olly olly oxen free!_** ” He muttered, his wand in his hand before he’d even realised it. “ ** _Come out, come out, wherever you are!_** ” That didn’t do anything else besides making all of his clothes fly out of the wardrobe, so Luke sighed and shut the window, tossing his wand somewhere and going back to bed. 

He fell asleep eventually, a little uneasy. He didn’t feel alone, but not the… familiar feeling of being watched in bed by Michael, ― it happened so often he was used to it, the other boy just… glaring at him as though he was trying to set him alight purely by willing it so ― it was something else entirely. Something he wasn't really familiar with at all.

* * *

Michael still wasn’t in their room when Luke woke up.

He looked around the dining hall at breakfast for him, but he wasn’t there. His minions ― those were Michael’s own words, not Luke’s. He’d actually called them his fucking minions before, ― were sitting without him, although the seat between them was empty, as if it was reserved for Michael’s ghost or something.

His name was called in Greek by Professor Minos. It was called out four times, actually. “Michael? Michael Clifford? Michael _Gordon_ Clifford? Has anyone seen Michael Clifford?”

He was supposed to be in Political Science with him too, but his name isn't even called out on that register. 

Luke was surprised. It wasn't exactly like Michael to just miss school. He wasn't sure he’d ever missed a day of school, actually. His mother used to be the headmistress before she’d, well… died, so he sort of took education seriously.

Michael’s family was weird in general. Before the Mage took over, they sort of ruled the World of Mages. And the Cliffords always seemed bitter that the Mage was in charge now. 

He cornered Harry, one of Michael’s friends after the lesson. “Where is he?”

Harry just raised a brow. “Your dick? Can't say I’ve seen it. Have you asked your little bum boy, Ash? Might still be up his arse.”

“You know who I’m talking about. Where’s Michael?”

Harry just shrugged. “What’s it to you, Hemmings?”

Luke just glared at him. “He’s my roommate. I think I have a right to know why he isn't… being my roommate.”

Harry just looked unimpressed. “I thought you'd be enjoying the solitude.”

That was a good point. Why did Luke even care where Michael was? Oh right, because he was pure evil and definitely plotting Luke’s death. “If he’s up to something I’ll find out.” 

Harry just nodded, almost mocking him with how much he was pretending to actually give a shit. “Noted. I’ll make sure to tell him how concerned you are, Hemmings.”

“Fuck off!” Luke glared at him, clenching his fist. 

“Noted!” Harry said again, laughing as he walked away from him.

By dinner, Luke was so stressed thinking about wherever Michael was that he hadn’t even realised he’d been stabbing his Yorkshire pudding for the past ten minutes until Ashton asked him if he needed to take the fork away from Luke for his own safety

“He might just be on holiday or something. There's really no point in worrying about it,” Ashton shrugged. 

“Why the fuck would he be on holiday?” Luke tried his best to imagine Michael’s pasty self standing on a beach in a warm country, but he couldn't. 

“His family travels,” Calum offered, taking a break from quietly eating beside Luke to contribute to the conversation. Luke stabbed his Yorkshire pudding again, and shook the table so much that he knocked over his glass of coke. Ashton just winced. 

“He wouldn't miss school, would he? This is Michael. He’d be too stressed that Ash would take over as first in class.” Luke wasn't too sure if Michael actually did care about school, or if he just cared about winning. Maybe it was a bit of both.

“Maybe he just decided not to come back this year?” Ashton offered. “Eighth year is optional and in the old days, loads of people didn't bother coming back for it.” 

Luke was just about to dismiss that theory when Calum spoke up again. “Guys, I don't think Michael dropped out.”

He was staring over at the table where Michael usually sat, with Harry and another one of their friends, Niall. They were talking with their heads close together, probably whispering about whatever Michael was plotting. 

“Do you know something?” Ashton asked. It took Luke a moment to shut his mouth and realise that Ash was actually asking Calum. 

His boyfriend just looked down at his plate. “He didn't tell me anything. Why would I even know something?”

Ashton shrugged, narrowing his eyes a little. “He must have. You were the last person to speak to him.”

Calum let out a laugh, and Luke clenched his teeth and hissed: “Ashton!” But the other boy ignored him. 

“Shut up, Luke. This is important. Cal knows Michael better than anyone.”

Luke just frowned. “No he doesn't. I live with him three quarters of the year. I know more about Michael.”

“But you don't know where he is! He didn't tell you anything, did he?” It was a rhetorical question, but Luke didn't exactly know what one of those was, so he answered anyway.

“No, nothing to make me think that he’d drop out of school and miss the chance to make me miserable the whole year.”

Calum scoffed beside him. “He doesn't even have to fucking be here to do that, does he? You do it yourself.”

That just… pissed Luke off. So he put down his fork, with maybe a little too much force than he should’ve used, and stood up. “Right. I’m done. I’m going up to my room now, appreciating the solitude and everything.”

Ashton and Calum both shouted something at him, but Luke ignored them and kept walking, reaching his room quicker than he expected to.

* * *

Michael wasn’t at breakfast the next morning. Or dinner, or tea. He wasn't there the next, either. He wasn’t in any of his classes, and the teachers seemed to make a mutual agreement to stop calling his name out on the register. The football team started practicing, and Michael lost his place on the team. Some 5th year that Luke didn’t care about enough to be able to put a name to his face took his spot.

He stalked his friends for a few days, just in case Michael was somewhere on the grounds and they snuck out to see him, but… nothing. 

He couldn't shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong. People didn't just disappear like this, and Michael especially didn't. Luke had been trying to get rid of him for seven years, it wasn't easy. 

Three weeks passed. And then four. And five. Six. 

Luke tried to force himself to stop looking for Michael everywhere he was supposed to be when he realised he was starting to act like Bella from Twilight during New Moon, hopelessly looking around for her vampire boyfriend and even trying to kill herself just to get his attention. 

(Not that Luke was planning on killing himself. Or Michael was his vampire boyfriend. Michael was _definitely_ not his vampire boyfriend, thank you very much.)

Whenever he heard someone coming into his room, he knew it was Ashton. He stayed over sometimes, staying in Michael’s bed just to get away from his annoying roommate. 

He tried hassling Harry a few more times, but if anything, the other boy was finally starting to seem just as clueless as Luke was. 

So, he stopped looking for Michael everywhere he was supposed to be, but that didn't mean he stopped looking for him completely. 

He started taking walks in the Wavering Wood at night after his fifth week back at Watford with no sign of Michael. Ashton didn’t even bother going with him, and Calum was always off doing schoolwork, so he was alone. 

Luke walked the wood, and he walked the fields. He managed to cover the school grounds between classes, finding secret rooms and hallways that he hadn't even realised were there before.

Luke never fully understood Watford, or the World of Mages in general. He spent most of his fifth year exploring the Catacombs below the White Chapel. Well, not exploring. Searching for Michael. God, everything he did revolved around that stupid fucker. 

In their fifth year, he kept seeing him sneak off down there, and of course he assumed it was a part of some great conspiracy to murder him in cold blood, so he snuck down there every night and followed him. He didn't find much. Piles of dead rats, drained of their blood like a bunch of squeezed up lemons. 

In the six months that he’d been following him ― or stalking, depending on how you looked at it, ― he only actually confronted him once. 

Michael was sat down that day, deep in the Catacombs. Luke couldn’t remember which part. Maybe the Children’s Tomb. That seemed right.

“Wow, you found me. Congrats. Remind me to get you a fucking trophy over the summer or something.” Michael was… as snarky as ever. Luke couldn’t really see him very well, his only source of light was his wand, and he wasn't exactly the best at magic. He was lazily slouched against the wall though, he could make out that much. He seemed a little tired, almost. Maybe that was the only reason why Luke had actually caught up with him.

“We both knew I would. Even if it took all year I wasn't going to stop following you around down here.” Luke narrowed his eyes, glaring at the other boy.

“Now what?” Michael asked, looking at him for the first time. He was sort of smiling, or smiling as much as he did. Michael’s smiles were more of a smirk than a proper smile. “What’re you gonna do now that you’ve _found_ me? You gonna wave your wand and do a little magic trick that saves the day?”

(Michael’s voice was mocking, but it usually was. Luke wasn't sure they’d ever had a conversation without him mocking him.)

He faltered a little, just because he hadn’t planned this far. He hadn’t really thought he’d ever catch up with Michael, and when it came to plans he usually left that stuff up to Ashton. But Ashton just thought that Luke was weirdly obsessed with Michael, and he had more important things to do than play a game of cat and mouse underneath the school.

“Now… now you tell me what you’re up to down here.”

He laughed, which actually happened more often than Michael smiling did. He was always fucking laughing at Luke. “They died in a plague, you know?”

Luke just frowned at him. “Don't change the subject,” he said, and then his curiosity got the better of him. “Who did?”

Michael brushed some of the dirt off of his trousers. He was still in his football uniform. He’d probably come straight after practice. “Les enfants.” A lock of his blue hair fell over his forehead. It’d been a lilac shade for the majority of their fifth year. Towards the end of the term he’d gotten bored and spelled it a teal shade though.

Luke just gave him a confused look, head tilting to the side. “So… is that why you’re here? To find a plague or something.” That didn't make _much_ sense, but it was a theory.

He laughed again. “Yes, Hemmings. I’m tracking down the plague. I was going to put it in a beaker, make a few adjustments and infect the entire World of Mages. Or maybe I’ll just sneak it into the kitchens and drop it into the mixture for those _stupid_ cherry scones you eat.”

Honestly, it was no wonder Luke thought Michael was pure evil when he said shit like that.

“What are you doing down here?” He pressed. Michael just looked bored. 

“I’m sitting. Are you blind as well as stupid, Hemmings? Do you need me to get you a pair of glasses?”

“Fuck off, Michael. Just tell me what you’re up to.” His sword was already out, he’d gotten in the habit of preparing it before he went in the Catacombs after he’d gotten a little spooked by a bat. It was better to be safe than sorry. And… it wasn't like he was planning on stabling Michael or anything. He was pretty sure he’d get kicked out of Watford by the anathema before the sword even touched him. It was just a _precaution_.

“You know, magic didn't actually help the students when the plague hit. There was nothing they could do to stop it. It just… completely wiped them out. It was unstoppable.”

Maybe Michael was trying to strike a nerve with Luke or something. When he brought up unstoppable forces, it sounded a lot like how people described the Humdrum. He was sort of like a plague. _The Insidious Humdrum_ , a monster that stole the Chosen One’s face. How the fuck was Luke supposed to fight an eleven year old version of himself?

Luke clenched his jaw, grip on his sword tightening. He could feel the hilt of the sword pressing into his hand. He stepped forward, swinging the sword into the pile of bones that Michael was sitting next to, sending them flying. He didn't hit Michael, it was fine. It was more of a warning than anything else. A warning of what Luke would do to him if he didn't tell him what was going on.

The blue haired boy just sneered at him ― if he wasn't laughing at Luke, he was either scowling or sneering, sometimes a mix of both ― and sat up properly, pointing his wand at the skulls. “ ** _As you were!_** ” They returned to their former spot, piled up in a neat pile beside Michael. “What do you want from me, Hemmings? Can you just fucking tell me so we can get this over with? You can go back to doing… whatever you’re doing when you’re not stalking me. Minding your own business, snogging Hood and running errands for the fucking Mage.”

“I’ve already fucking told you. I want to know what you’re up to.” It was like trying to get through to a brick wall.

“I’m sat in a fucking tomb with a bunch of bones, Hemmings. What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Stop fucking lying to me!” Luke wasn't sure what answer he was looking for, but it wasn't that. He'd spent all year following Michael through the catacombs, he refused to believe that he didn't have some sort of master plan to ruin his life a little more.

“Look, mate.” Luke had to stop himself from telling Michael to fuck off. He wasn't his pissing mate. Michael got to his feet, walking over towards him. Maybe Luke instinctively started backing away, not stopping until his back was pressed against the wall. Michael had been taller than him back when they were fifteen, he’d had a good few inches on him, and with how _close_ he’d been standing, he had to arch his neck a little to look him in the eyes.

“You’ve been following me, _looking_ for me for fucking months. And now you’ve found me. It’s not my fucking fault that you haven’t found what you’re looking for, is it?”

Michael arched his brow, only about a pace away from Luke now. This was probably the closest he’d ever actually stood to him, except from when he’d pushed him down that flight of stairs.

Luke was about to shake his head, but he managed to stop himself. “I know what you are.”

“What? Your roommate?” He laughed. God, Luke hated his fucking laugh. 

He shook his head, holding his sword a little tighter. 

“Tell me then? Since you seem to be a fucking expert in what I am.”

Luke couldn't. He was pretty sure he’d forgotten how to speak. Michael took a step closer, getting dangerously close to him, so Luke raised his sword a little. “What're you gonna do? Stab me?” He chuckled.

“You’re a vampire,” Luke shouted.

Michael giggled. He fucking giggled. Luke would have stabbed him if he wouldn't get thrown out of Watford for doing so. “You think I’m a vampire?” He grinned, and Luke was pretty sure that was the only time he’d seen him do that, actually. “Well, fuck me. If Luke Hemmings says it, it must be true! What’re you gonna do? Slay me? Have you got a wooden stake up your arse or something?”

Luke just frowned. “I reckon a sword would work just as well as a stake.” 

“Do something then, Hemmings,” he teased, that stupid fucking _smirk_ tugging on his lips again. “Save the day, or the night. I’m the bad guy, right? The evil vampire, here to kill all of Watford? Surely it’s your duty as the bastard Chosen One to kill me.”

Luke was pretty sure that he’d never wanted to kill Michael as much as he had in that moment, not even when the other boy had set a fucking chimera on him. So, he raised his sword a little more, extending it the tiniest bit and only stopping when the tip was touching Michael’s chest, right over his heart. Just a little bit of pressure and it’d go right in.

But he couldn’t. Luke wasn't sure what he’d do without Watford, and magic, and finally feeling like he even _sort of_ belonged somewhere. “I don’t have to do anything,” he decided, lowering his sword until it was back by his side. “I already know what you are. Now I just have to wait for you to make a mistake.”

“That's your plan?” He mocked. “God, Hemmings, you really are the worst Chosen One to ever be chosen.”

“Fuck off, Clifford.”

The vampire ― or probable vampire, ― snorted, and ran a hand through his hair. “If I’d have known it was this easy to get rid of you, I would have let you catch up to me months ago!”

He shouted that as Luke walked away from him, keeping his sword out just in case he tried to sneak up on him from behind. But he didn't. Michael didn't return to their room until Luke had already fallen asleep that night, and they didn't speak about what happened in the Catacombs.

Luke hadn’t been to the Catacombs that night, but he started returning there in his eighth year, once again searching for Michael. He spent pretty much every night there, working his way carefully through the twisted maze. He kept looking for him, or a clue, but every night he turned around and returned to his dorm room with absolute fuck all.

* * *

Luke was failing Greek. And he didn’t understand anything in Political Science. 

He and Calum were hardly speaking, last time they had they’d gotten into an argument about him going to Cal’s house to stay over half term break. Luke didn't want to leave Watford, he was too busy walking down the same passages in the Catacombs every night, fixated on the mystery that was Michael Clifford’s disappearance. 

He wasn't even sure that Calum really wanted him to go with him. 

He stopped wearing his cross, since there wasn’t much point with his vampire roommate M.I.A. And he kept having to kick Ashton out of his room, just because he kept sneaking in there to spend the night in Michael’s bed and escape third wheeling his annoying roommate and his boyfriend.

He gave up on the Catacombs eventually, instead searching other parts of Watford for him, like the ramparts. He didn’t find him, but he didn't expect to. However, he liked the wind, and the stars. He always missed the stars whenever he was away from Watford, there were always too many lights to actually see them whenever he ended up for the summer.

One night, he saw someone else up there, on the ramparts. He thought it was a Visiting at first, a ghost. Although, he wasn't really sure who would want to visit him. 

But it wasn't. It was Calum. He was wearing a pale shirt, maybe his school shirt, and it was untucked from his trousers. His hair was messier than usual, curls not neatly brushed back away from his face like they usually were. 

He turned to look at Luke, and it would have been funny how surprised he looked to see him, if Luke hadn’t been… well, Luke.

“I thought you were studying.” He didn't mean it to be an accusation, but it was. 

“I was. Then I felt like taking a walk.”

Luke could tell Calum was lying, but it was fine. He was too. “Yeah, me too.” 

Calum shivered, and that was when Luke’s brain jumped back into autopilot and he realised that Calum was standing out in the freezing cold in just a thin shirt in the middle of autumn. He unzipped his coat, intending to give it to him. “I’m fine, Luke.” 

Luke just offered it to him anyway. “Luke, keep your coat. I don't want it.” He felt too awkward to put his coat back on after that, so he just folded it over one arm and frowned. He didn't know what to say, or do. Maybe he should kiss him. He hadn't kissed Calum since they’d been back. (Fuck, why hadn’t he noticed that he hadn’t even kissed his own boyfriend?)

Luke reached out to try and take his hand, but he must've caught him off guard because Calum’s hand jerked open and he dropped something. It clattered against the ground, and Luke rushed down to pick it up before Calum could. 

It was a pocket watch. 

Luke knew it was Michael’s just from the Clifford coat of arms on the cover. And a lot of people didn't carry a pocket watch anyway, most of them just wore watches like a normal person ― so, Ashton ― or bugged their friends for the time, like Luke did.

But Michael had an annoying habit of carrying the pocket watch with him. He flicked it open and shut at night when he couldn't sleep, and it annoyed the shit out of Luke. 

Calum tried to snatch it out of Luke’s hand, but he kept it out of his reach. “What’s this?” He raises his brows, trying to ignore the tight feeling in his chest. “Are you― is he coming? Are you here to meet him or something?”

Calum shook his head. “No, of course not.”

Luke lets out a laugh, completely mirthless. “How can you say that as if I’m― I’m fucking stupid for even wondering that, when you’re up here in the middle of the night holding his fucking _pocket watch_ obviously thinking about him?”

Calum crossed his arms, shivering a little more. “You don't know who or what I’m thinking about, Luke.”

“You’re right, Calum. I don't. I never know what you’re fucking thinking anymore.”

Calum was quiet for a moment, and Luke didn't bother saying anything else to him. “What if I am waiting for Michael?” 

“Are you?” He asked, honestly wanting to rip his own hair out. 

He shook his head. “No. Not waiting. I don't think he’s coming.”

“But you want him to,” he said, this time meaning it to sound like an accusation. Calum just shrugged. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Calum? He’s a monster. Like, an actual fucking monster. He’d probably try and give you a hickey and accidentally end up draining your blood.” He was trying (and failing, honestly) to keep his temper in check.

“We’re all monsters, Luke.”

Luke just frowned at him. “So did you cheat on me? With Michael.”

Calum scowled at him, and Luke was surprised he hadn't done that earlier. “Fuck off. You know I wouldn't.”

“Did you want to?” And to that he just shrugged. “Do you― Do you have anything else to say to me? Like I’m sorry? Don't you want to fix this?” 

Calum just turned away from him, and he looked like he was crying, but Luke wasn't sure since it was so dark. “Fix what, Luke? Our relationship? We’re barely even fucking together. God, Ashton’s probably more of a boyfriend than me.” He crossed his arms. “You don't want _me_.”

Luke frowned at him. “Yes I do.”

He shook his head. “No, you don't. You want me eventually. In the future, when it suits you. When you’ve finished saving the fucking world and you want someone to be crying and… and fucking hugging you, and telling you they’re glad you’re alive. I can― I can still do that even if we’re not together, Luke, but I can't be your happily ever after. I don't want to be.”

He was blinking back tears himself now, frowning at him a little more. “I thought you wanted that.”

“No. I don't want to be your prize at the end of the story, or whatever. I’m not a fucking afterthought, Luke Hemmings. I want to be someone’s _right now_.”

“You’re twisting everything,” he said, nose scrunching up. “You’re making it all ugly and… making it something it’s not.”

Calum just forced a small laugh. “Yeah, maybe I am.”

“We can fix this,” Luke offered. Calum doesn't even look at him.

“Yeah, we could. But I don't want to.”

“Please don't leave me for him. I love you, Cal.” Luke was crying now. He wiped away the hot tears that streamed down his face as they fell. 

“I’m not. He’s not even here. I just… don't want to be with you anymore, Luke.” Calum shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I’m not happy.”

* * *

Luke couldn’t sleep that night. 

He just laid in his bed, scowling at his ceiling and trying to figure out what the fuck had gone wrong. What Michael had said to Calum to make him fall out of love with him. He was sure it was Michael’s fault. It had to be. There was no one else that could’ve done it. 

Maybe he didn't have to do anything, just be himself. Michael was practically fucking perfect anyway. He was smarter than Luke, and much better looking. He had more money, and he was from a posh family, so he understood all of those posh people things that confused Luke to no end. (Like all the different types of cutlery. Luke only used a knife and fork, and that was only sometimes. Who the fuck needed three spoons?)

If he wasn't a vampire, he’d definitely be fucking perfect. 

He had to resist the urge to punch his pillow, so he just rolled over and pressed his face into it instead. There was a creek, and Luke is just about to shout to Ashton about how he’d told him to sleep in his own fucking bed that night. 

But it wasn't Ashton. 

There was a woman standing at the end of his bed. 

Luke recognised her, he wasn't sure where from, but she was dead. Well, a Visitor. He’d seen enough of them around to recognise them easily now. She’d come from across the Veil.

“You’re not him,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Who are you?” He asked. He reached his hand out, he wasn't sure what for. Maybe his sword. Or his wand. But nothing came.

“I keep coming, this is his place. This is where he’s supposed to be, where I’m called. But he’s not here, only you. Where is he?” 

She was tall, and wearing a robe. Her hair was dark, and her face was the same pale shade as the wall and her eyes are big and green… Luke probably would have described her as being pretty, if she didn't look at least twenty years older than him, and he wasn't extremely gay. 

He realised where he recognised her from. One of the portraits, in the Mage’s office. Natasha Clifford. Watford’s last headmistress. Or… Michael’s mother.

“Where is he? Where’s my son? Did you hurt him?” 

She was practically fucking wailing. “N-No, I didn't. I don't fucking know where he is.”

“The Veil’s closing. It’ll be twenty years before I can see my son again.” She turned to face him, and pushed forward. Luke wasn’t sure how long they stay during their visits. Maybe two minutes, max.

“You’ll have to do.”

“Me?” He asked, sitting up a little.

Her hands gripped his shoulders, and Luke is a little shocked when she doesn't pass through him. “Tell my son,” she started, looking him dead in the eye. “Tell him that my killer walks ― Nicodemus knows. Tell Michael to find Nico and bring me peace. Do you understand?” 

Luke nodded, “I’ll tell him. I promise, I’ll tell him.” Or he would, if he ever saw Michael again.

“Give him this,” she said, leaning in and pressing a kiss to his temple. No one had ever kissed him there before, or really anywhere besides his mouth and cheek. “Tell him. Tell him…”

Luke wasn't sure when she disappeared. He hid underneath his covers as soon as she disappeared. But he heard another whisper as he drifted off to sleep, “Luke, Luke. My rosebud boy.” 

He figured he was just dreaming already.

He practically rushed out of bed the next morning, not wanting to stay in that room anymore. The ghosts could fucking have it, he didn't want it anymore. Fuck, Michael could have the entire room to himself if he ever came back. Luke could just sleep on Ashton’s floor. 

“We need to talk,” he said, swinging his legs over the bench and sitting opposite Ashton at breakfast. He was already buttering his toast, raising his brows at Luke.

“Good. I thought you were going to make me beat it out of you or something.”

Luke just frowned at him. “You know? How do you know?”

He shrugged, having a mouthful of his tea. “Well, something must've happened. Calum’s sitting all alone and he won't even look at me. I shouted over and he told me to fuck off.”

Ashton was right, Calum was sitting on the other side of the dining hall, reading a book as he sipped his coffee. 

“So?”

Luke reached over and grabbed a cherry scone. “We broke up. It’s not a big deal.”

Ashton almost choked on his tea. “You broke up? Why?”

He gave him a confused look. “Well… I don't really know, honestly. I think he’s in love with Michael.” Although, Luke wasn't sure why anyone in their right mind would be in love with Michael Clifford.

Ashton just nodded. “Huh. Yeah, I can see that, actually.”

Luke bit into his scone, not bothering to swallow it before talking. “Oh, well I’m fucking glad.”

Ashton just rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. I doubt he’s in love with him, anyway. It’s romantic to be in love with a dead vampire.”

“Dead?” Luke asked, raising his voice a little. A few people sitting near them frowned at him. “Dead?” He asked again, speaking a little more quietly.

“Well… not dead. Just missing. Properly missing.”

Luke hadn't really realised that Michael might be dead. That'd be a bit shit actually, just because he'd always figured that he'd be the one to finish the fucker off. And it'd mean he’d died without Luke getting to prove to everyone that he actually was a vicious vampire.

He almost slipped off of the bench in shock when the doors flew open. He dropped half of his scone into his lap, and Ashton’s teaspoon clattered against the mug. It’s bright outside of the dining hall, and at first all you could see was the outline of whoever was tragically late to breakfast. 

But Luke recognised him as soon as he walked a little closer.

Tall. Dark hair, black maybe? It’d been red last time Luke had seen him. He was already in his school uniform, and his lips were curls up in that fucking sneer of his. 

He stood up too quickly, knee bumping the table as his scone fell to the floor. Across the room, Calum did the same. His coffee mug shattered on the floor.

Michael stepped towards them.

_Michael_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well. that happened. come hang out and talk w me on tumblr !! im @[mikeycliffords](https://mikeycliffords.tumblr.com) (pls dont ask me when the next part will be out. i dont know anything ok)


	2. it always ends with us hating each other (you should be pulling me in)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> michael’s returned to watford, and luke hasn’t really decided whether it’s a good thing or not. he wasn't really sure on it yet, or most things. in fact, there are probably only three things that he’s completely sure on. 1. he’s definitely going to fail all of his classes since he spent most of his free time looking for michael. 2. michael clifford is undoubtedly a vampire. and 3. he needs to tell michael about his mum. (no, he also isn’t sure why all of his thoughts revolve around michael, that’s a question for another time.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaa !! carry on fic pt. 2. this is a sexy edited version bc i noticed a few mistakes, but thank you to [peyton](https://escapesos.tumblr.com/) for beta reading the original version of this !! god i love writing michael’s pov so much i think he might be my favourite to write, ngl. anyway !! enjoy

**Michael.**

Maybe Michael didn't have to use **Open Sesame** on the doors to the dining hall, but he felt like it. And in his defence, it wasn't like he wasn't going to draw attention to himself by the fact that he’d been missing for months, so he might as well draw as much attention to himself as possible. 

Luke was the first person to react to his reappearance; of course he was. He was making a big fuss of it, like he did everything, practically flipping the table as he stood up. Michael was honestly shocked that he didn’t have his sword out. His sidekick ― or friend, maybe that was a better word for Ashton Irwin ― was tugging on the sleeve of his jumper, trying to get him to sit down. And Calum… Michael wasn't really sure where Calum was, wherever it was, he didn't really care. His attention was sort of always fixed on Luke anyway. 

He made his way over to his usual table with Harry and Niall, who immediately moved a plate of toast from where it was sitting in front of his empty chair. It was nice of them to save his spot, and not replace him with another tall, scary eighth year.

“Michael,” Harry smiled, offering him a cup of tea. 

“So…” he started, clearing his voice. Michael glanced back to the other side of the hall, at Luke, who was still standing at him staring like a fucking gormless pigeon. “What have I missed?”

Luke Hemmings stood up again when he walked into their Greek Classroom after breakfast. It took pretty much all of Michael’s self control not to roll his eyes. “You know, Hemmings. I’m not the bastard Queen. You don't have to fucking stand up every time I walk into a room.” Honestly, it’d be kind of funny if it wasn't so annoying. 

The taller boy just frowned at him, opening his mouth as if he was about to say something. “I― Um― Yeah.” 

It was safe to say he was as intelligible as ever. 

Michael just sighed, walking past him to his seat in the front of the classroom.

The Minotaur ― their teacher ― scoffed when he sees him, crossing his arms. “So you’ve finally decided to join us, then.”

He nodded, sitting down and giving the Minotaur an innocent look. “I have, sir.”

“We’ll have to discuss your plans to catch up.”

Michael just nodded, “Right. Of course.” He might've missed a full term of school, but Michael knew that he definitely didn't need to catch up. He was practically fluent in Greek, and he’d been ahead of the class anyway before his disappearance. 

“We shall see,” he nodded. 

It wasn't like Michael was lying. He’d be fine in Greek and Latin. He’d be fine in most of his lessons, actually. Political Science and Astrology might be a little difficult, but he was pretty sure he’d be okay. 

He doubted Coach Mac would actually let him back on the football team, though. That was very unlikely. He’d probably already been replaced on the team, which didn't bother him that much, but it still kind of sucked. 

It’d probably be a lot easier if Michael just told everyone what’d really happened. That he’d been kidnapped.

But he wouldn't. It was just _embarrassing_. People like Luke Hemmings got kidnapped. Michael Clifford didn't get kidnapped. Except when… well, he did. 

It’d been the fucking numpties, which made it even worse, honestly. Numpties were like trolls, but worse. They were barely even smart enough to knock you over the head to drag you to their den for cheap bribery, which was exactly what’d happened to Michael.

His Aunt Fiona had been livid when she’d rescued him from the numpty den. She seemed mostly disgusted in the state her nephew had been found in, if not maybe a little relieved that he was still alive. 

Apparently he’d been stuck in the den, trapped in a coffin for six weeks. 

(Being trapped in a coffin wasn't fun or normal for a vampire. Or at least not for Michael. He slept in a bed ― preferably one where he could stare at Luke as he drifted off ― and being stuck in such a small space had been torture. Sure, they’d fed him blood every so often, but he didn't get any food.

He wasn't sure numpties knew vampires needed food, which made sense. Most people knew fuck all about vampires.

Then again, Michael kind of knew fuck all about vampires, honestly.)

He could barely stand by himself when his Aunt Fiona found him. She had to put her arm around him just to keep him standing upright. “You alright?” She asked. 

Michael just shook his head. His throat felt sore from lack of use. He’d spoken a lot in the first week of being the numpties’ prisoner ― mainly screaming, and shouting various threats ― but after a while he’d given up, quieting down and wondering how long it’d take for him to just die or be taken to whoever had bribed the numpties into killing him. “Hungry,” he managed to croak out. “Thirsty.” 

“Can you eat one of these?” She booted a dead numpty. (Aunt Fiona had killed all of the numpties before rescuing him from the coffin, so that hadn't been Michael’s handiwork. Although he wished he’d been able to actually carry through all of those threats.)

He scowled at her. “No. I’ve got standards.” Numpty blood was gross.

“I’ll take you to McDonald’s.” She dragged him out of the den and towards where she’d parked her car, and he didn't have any choice but to get in. 

“I don't want to go to fucking Maccies. Take me to school.” 

They didn't go to school. They went to McDonald's. Fiona bought him three triple cheeseburgers, two portions of fries and a large strawberry milkshake. He swallowed the first burger in two bites, and then Fiona had to pull the car over so he could puke out of the window. 

“You’re a wreck, Michael. I’m taking you home.”

Michael snorted, rolling his eyes and biting into the second burger. He was pretty sure he’d be able to keep that one down. “It’s September. Take me to school.”

“It’s October. You need to go home and rest.” 

He frowned at her. “What do you fucking mean its October? Turn around, I need to go to school.” He wasn't really in any position to go to school. His clothes were in a horrible state, and he hadn’t showered in god knows how long. He couldn't turn up in front of Hemmings looking like that. He’d have the piss taken out of him. 

Plus he was pretty sure if he tried to walk anywhere right now he’d pass out. He needed to nap for a day or two. Or a week.

“School doesn't fucking matter, we’re in the middle of a war.”

It took all of Michael’s self restraint not to grab the wheel and try and spin the car around. His arm hurt anyway, he probably wouldn't be able to. He was stronger than most people, but he hadn't had a decent drink in forever, he was exhausted.

“We’re always in the middle of a bastard war. There’s no fucking way I’m letting Ashton Irwin finish this year at the top of the class instead of me.”

His aunt just snorted. “Mikey.” She knew how much he hated being called Mikey. “You’ve been kidnapped. And held for ransom.”

“There was a ransom? Did you pay it?”

“Fuck no. Cliffords don't pay ransoms, never have, never will.”

Michael almost spat his strawberry milkshake out in shock.

“Well fuck me, Fiona. Anyone would think you guys don't even like me.” He scrunched his nose up, continuing to eat even though his stomach felt like it’d shrunk in half. 

She just rolled her eyes. “I’m pretty sure the Mage had you kidnapped, by the way. If you’re looking for someone to have a bone to pick with.”

Michael had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “You think the Mage had me kidnapped?” It wasn't that he didn't think the Mage was a conniving prick, he did. But Fiona kind of tended to just blame the Mage for everything, even if it didn't make much sense.

“Of course.” She nodded, nose scrunched up in distaste at even the thought of that man. “Oh, I have your wand, by the way.”

She pulled his wand ― ivory with a leather hilt, his mum had it specially made for him when he’d been born ― out of her handbag, passing it to him. “So, obviously you’re not off back to that school right into that fuckwit’s clutches.”

Michael just snorted. “Yes I am.”

“ _Michael_.” She said that in her stern voice, the one she only used when she was trying to stop her nephew from making terrible decisions.”

He just scowled at her, putting his hand on the lever that would pop the car door open if he wanted it to. “Take me back to Watford or I’ll jump.”

She glanced at him, trying to sense if he was bluffing or not. Michael was an idiot, but not that much of an idiot to open a car door whilst it was moving and probably kill himself trying to escape onto the motorway. Plus, once he was there he wouldn't have anywhere to go. He was too exhausted to cast a spell and get back to Watford. 

“I’m taking you home first. Your dad wants to see you.”

He nodded. “Yeah, and then you’ll take me to Watford.”

She just gripped the steering wheel a little more, sighing. “Fine, yeah. If you still want to go.”

When he got home, he was rushed straight to bed, and he didn't move for a fortnight. 

They all tried to convince him to stay longer. They even brought in his old nanny, Vera, to try and get her to convince him. (Vera was a normal, and she hadn't looked after him since he started school, but she still came to every one of his birthday parties. She rationalised all of the strangeness surrounding their family by pretending that they were in the Mafia. Michael wished it was true, being in the Mafia was much cooler than being a mage.)

After two weeks, he got out of bed, packed his bags and went and sat in the front seat of Fiona’s car that was still taking up space in their driveway. 

Aunt Fiona stomped all the way out of the front door down the drive, and opened the passenger side’s door. “Back seat. Front seat’s for people that haven’t been kidnapped by fucking numpties.”

* * *

**Luke.**

Luke practically ran to their room once lessons were over for the day, but Michael was nowhere to be seen. His clothes were in his wardrobe, his bed was made ― it’d still been messy from Ashton sleeping in it one night when he’d left for breakfast that morning ― and all of his bottles and tubes of fancy hair conditioning shit were back in the bathroom, taking up the majority of the counter space. 

He opened all of the windows in the room, even though it was freezing out. Luke kind of felt like he was overheating, he had all day. Ashton had to practically pin him down to the bench they’d been sitting on during breakfast, he’d just wanted to rush over to Michael and demand that he tell him where he’d been. And maybe… maybe make sure that it was really him. 

He knew it was him now. He was just as annoying as ever.

He was here. He was alive. Or as alive as he got.

Michael had looked awful than usual, more pale and skinnier. His clothes seemed to hang off of him, the way Luke’s did at the start of every term. There was something weird about the way he walked too, but Luke didn't want to stare at him too much so he didn't really get a good look.

He kind of just wanted to run over to him and knock him over, maybe figure it all out. He’d interrogate him, demand to know what the fuck was wrong with him and where he’d been for eight weeks. 

He waited in their room until dinner, but Michael never made an appearance. He completely ignored him in the dining hall too, he didn’t even scowl at him when Luke bumped his shoulder against Michael’s on purpose as he walked past him. He was completely ignoring Calum too, which made him feel a little better. (Calum was staring at Michael about as much as Luke was.)

Calum was sitting by himself, like he had been since they’d broken up. He wasn't really sure if that made him sad or angry. Or even how he felt about Calum. Maybe he didn't really feel much about Calum at all. Maybe he never had. 

“We should study in the library tonight.” Ashton said, taking a break between taking bites of the chicken he was eating. “Or maybe my room. I could probably cast a spell to kick Mitchy out for the night.”

“I’m gonna have to face him eventually, Ash.” Luke played with his food a little, scrunching his nose up as he realised he’d mixed his mashed potato with his gravy and now it was all soggy and gross. 

“Well that’s what I’m worried about. You’ll end up setting fire to your dorm if you talk to him now, you need to cool down a little first.” 

Luke just frowned at him, sipping his orange juice. “I’m cool.” 

Ashton laughed, even though Luke could tell he was trying to be serious. “Luke, you’re never cool.”

He just pouted, pretending like he was offended by that comment. “You know, that really hurts, Ash. Think I might go to bed and cry now.”

Ashton aimed a kick at his leg under the table, but he ended up missing. 

“I just― I need to know where he’s been. It’s important.”

“Well he’s not gonna fucking tell you, is he? Even if you ask nicely.”

That was a good point, but Luke didn't want to admit that.

“Maybe I can trick him into telling me something! That’d work.” Ashton didn't look convinced. “What do you think he’s even been up to? He looks like he’s been in some sort of American terror prison.”

Ashton ran his hands through his hair, reaching over and getting another bread bun to make a chip sandwich. “I don't know? He’s probably just been sick.”

He did look like he’d been sick, all pale and skinny, like he hadn't been able to keep food down for a while. But surely if he’d been sick then his parents would have just told school. And what could've been wrong with him that it took over a month for him to get better? 

Even if he had been sick, Luke could imagine him sipping tea in bed with his cat ― in Luke’s head, Michael had a cat. He wasn't sure why, honestly ― and thinking up loads of different ways that he was going to torture him that year. He’d already set a chimera on him, maybe he’d go bigger and try and find a wyvern or a basilisk or something. That seemed like a Michael thing to do.

“It’s just not gonna help anyone if you pick a fight with him.”

Luke scrunched his nose up, frowning at him. “I… wouldn't pick a fight with him.” That was a bold faced lie. He was pretty sure he’d picked a fight with Michael every time he’d seen him since starting Watford. He just couldn't help it.

Ashton just rolled his eyes and bit into his Yorkshire pudding.

* * *

Ashton graciously allowed Luke to go back to his room after dinner, instead of trying to force him to go to the library and study or something, which he’s thankful for because if he tried to even think about school work right now he’d definitely end up having a meltdown or something. The last time he’d done that in the library, it hadn't been pretty; he’d ended up accidentally setting fire to one of the aisles and the Mage had to convince the librarian not to ban him for life. (Honestly, he wouldn't have minded being banned for life. It would’ve been a great reason not to study.)

He stopped when he got to the top of the steps, hovering around awkwardly outside their door. Luke wasn’t sure what he was going to say to Michael. Ashton told him just to do his homework and go straight to bed, but he already knew it wouldn't be that easy. 

Sharing a room with Michael was like sharing a room with a siren. Not one of the weird mermaid type things, he wasn't even sure if they were real or not. Michael was like a fucking police siren. You couldn’t ignore him, and you never get used to him, and every time you heard him he snuck up on you and made you jolt out of your skin. 

He was evil, basically. 

Luke really hated being his roommate. He was just the worst. They both completely avoided their room when they could, but when they couldn't ― like now, honestly ― they both just… avoided each other. Luke didn't speak to Michael. He didn't do much besides frown at him and try and pretend like he wasn't sharing a room with a vampire. 

Maybe he definitely took Michael’s absence at the start of the year for granted. 

It was the only time he’d ever been away from Michael and at Watford at the same time. It should've been a dream come true for him, Ashton had said that many times in the past few weeks. He wasn't completely sure why it hadn't been.

It wasn't like he enjoyed Michael’s presence. They’d been roommates since they were eleven, and it’d been seven years now. He used to beg the Mage for a new roommate, but that wasn't exactly possible. The Crucible cast Michael and him together on their first day of school. 

It was still kind of the weirdest thing he’d ever felt, when the magic had started to work on him. Like something small built up inside your gut, until it was a mystical magnet that connected you to the person you were destined to share a room with.

Luke hadn't thought it was working for him, until the magic sort of all happened at once ― which wasn't that surprising, because that seemed to be how magic worked for him all of the time. Not gradual or… slow in the least ― and before he knew it he was stumbling forward. 

That was the first time he’d noticed Michael.

He’d actually been taller than him back then, but only by a few inches, and his hair was that dirty blonde colour that it’d been before he’d started dyeing it when he was fourteen. He’d still looked all posh and sort of stuck up back then, looking like he wanted to die the second he realised that his roommate was going to be Luke Hemmings. Most people wouldn't have minded, but Michael was Michael. And Luke was Luke. They weren't really ever supposed to get along. 

(Michael’s family was sort of magic purist, and looked down on anyone who didn't have strong magic, or any at all. Which included Luke, since he was more of a Normal than a mage anyway.)

The Crucible’s magic didn’t stop until you and your new roommate shook hands, and Luke had offered his to Michael immediately, but Michael just stood there with his stupid hands in his pockets for a while. 

Luke wasn't sure how he’d been able to do that, honestly. He felt like his intestines were going to somehow burst out of his stomach and wrap around Michael, refusing to let go until the other boy got a grip and shook his fucking hand. 

“Hemmings.” He said. Michael didn't ever actually call Luke by his name. It was always Hemmings, which annoyed him more than it should. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, giving him a small smile and waving at him. “Here.”

“The Mage’s Heir.” Luke had nodded, even though he hadn't known what that’d meant back then. He hadn't really known what anything had meant, but then again, he still sort of didn't. 

Michael had just frowned at him, shook Luke’s hand for barely even a second, and then wiped his own on the back of his school trousers after pulling away.

Luke somehow mustered up enough courage to open the door to his dorm and step in. He glanced around, looking for Michael, and was kind of disappointed when he didn't see him. (Which he’d never admit. It wasn't _that_ important, he’d probably just been sort of excited for the confrontation.)

He took a shower whilst Michael was gone, and then decided to shave on a whim. Michael was back by the time he’d finished, stood by his bed unpacking his school things. Luke was starting to regret the shower, and the fact that he was only wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms with a damp hair towel hung around his neck. 

“What are you doing?” He scowled at him, face all scrunched up. Anyone would have thought that Luke had just called him a pile of wank and told him to fuck off or something. 

“Taking a shower, what does it look like I’m doing?” Luke frowned at him, putting the towel in his washing hamper and staring at the other boy for a moment. He really did look rough. And more pale than usual, which was impressive since Michael was basically the same shade as a sheet of paper. “What’s your problem?”

“You,” Michael sighed, throwing his bag back down on his bed. “It’s always fucking you.”

Luke snorted, earning a glare from the shorter boy. “Hello, Michael. Welcome back.” He was nice. He could be nice. Even to Michael.

Michael just looked away from him, unzipping his bag and putting things in his drawers. “Where’s your necklace?” His voice was low, and Luke didn't have to see his face to know that he was frowning.

Luke just gave him a baffled look, brows scrunching up. “My what?”

He couldn’t see much of his face, but it looked like his jaw was clenched and he had that scowl on his features. “Your fucking cross, Hemmings,” he spat.

Luke’s hand flew to his throat, and realised that he definitely should've put his cross on before he showered. Or maybe he shouldn't have even taken it off in the first place. He’d just sort of given up on the idea that Michael would actually come back.

He hurried over to his bed, pulling the little box where he’d dumped the cross out of his bedside cabinet. It was only once the cross was back around his neck that he walked back over to Michael. “Where have you been?”

“None of your business.” He grumbled.

The other boy looked at him for the first time in god knows how long. He always forgot what Michael’s eyes looked like unless he was staring right at them. They were more green than anything, and sort of reminded him of the packaging on the flavour of Lucozade he always drank too much of over the summer. 

Sometimes they looked a little more grey than green though, just slightly. Not a bad grey though, like a blue grey, or a blank grey that could only be described as the colour of pavement. They were a pretty grey green shade. (Not that he’d ever admit to anyone that he thought Michael was pretty. Or his eyes.)

“You look like shit, you know,” Luke said, just because it was true, Michael really did look like shit. And maybe he needed to insult him a little because he couldn't shake the feeling that Michael’s eyes were a little pretty and maybe he’d missed seeing them glare at him.

Michael just huffed. “Fuck off, Hemmings. It’s not like you look any better.”

He didn’t. Luke looked just as bad as Michael, maybe even worse. And it was all his fault.

How the fuck was Luke supposed to do stupid things like eat, sleep and actually look after himself when his nemesis had been out there somewhere, probably plotting against him?

But now that Michael was back it was sort of okay. He could at least keep an eye on him if he was here. 

Luke sat down at his desk and tried to at least do some of the homework he’d been putting off to theorise about where Michael had been and what he was doing. At some point, the other boy left. He didn't say anything, didn't say where he was going, but Luke knew it was to the Catacombs to hunt rats, or maybe to the Woods to hunt squirrels. Either way, he was going to hurt something. 

He went to bed after Michael left, but he couldn’t sleep. He didn’t sleep a wink until the other boy got back after hours, smelling like dust and blood. It was like fucking fifth year all over again. He couldn’t seem to actually relax unless he knew where he was.

It was only when the other boy was in bed and Luke was starting to drift off that he actually remembered the incident with Michael’s mum.

* * *

**Michael.**

Michael nearly snuck into the Mage’s office that night. 

It wasn't like he actually wanted to go in there. Why would he? But his insane aunt Fiona seemed to think that Michael would actually find something in there. 

Michael never did, besides old books covered in dust that were his mothers anyway, and the Mage’s computer. (Which he’d already looked on, and there was fuck all. The Mage mainly used his phone, and it wasn't like Michael was about to try and _steal_ his phone.)

But that night he was far too tired to do his aunt’s bidding, even though she’d badgered him all the way to Watford to do some sneaking around on her behalf.

By the time he was done in the Catacombs, Michael felt like he was about to pass out. He just barely managed to drag himself up the tower steps to his room, knuckles white as he clutched the banister like it was the only thing keeping him up.

Hemmings was asleep when he got in. 

He glanced over at him, kind of wishing that he’d turn around so he could see him properly and take a minute to familiarise himself with his features again after so long of not seeing him. 

But he didn’t. All he saw were his golden curls, messy from being pressed against the pillow, and his shoulder, with the duvet pulled as far up as it could be. The other boy was annoyingly warm, like a human heater. He was probably boiling to death under the duvet. 

He stripped into his pyjamas, not bothering to go into the bathroom to change since Hemmings was fast asleep. And then he got into bed, almost starting to regret trying to make it through the full day of classes and football practice. His legs felt numb and he was pretty sure he’d pulled a muscle in his arm or something. 

Michael’s bed at Watford was probably his favourite thing about the school. And maybe his dorm room entirely. It felt more of a bedroom than his room back at home did, even though that room was twice the size of this with a queen sized bed and a carpet so comfortable that you could probably sleep on it. But his room with Hemmings was a lot nicer. And it was actually decorated to his liking, not by his step-mother. So it was better. 

He heard Hemmings shuffling about, so he turned over to face him. Luke’s eyes were scrunched up, along with his nose, and he was pretty sure the other boy was having a bad dream. Although, that meant he was sleeping, so Michael could stare at him as much as he wanted to.

He always slept scrunched up in a knot, knees tucked to his chest and head leaning on his arm to the point where Michael was concerned it’d be numb hours after he woke up and moved it. He practically cuddled his pillow, and his curls were always framing his head like a fucking halo. (Basically, he was perfect.)

The little amount of light that was shining in the room cast shadows on his face, and Michael hoped it didn't get any brighter in the room because he might wake up. 

There wasn't really any light in the coffin that he’d been stuck in for weeks. It’d just been an endless cycle of sleeping and drinking blood and being in pain. Whenever he got too close to almost giving up, Michael clung onto the one thing that he was always sure of.

(Those stupid blue eyes and golden curls.)

The fact that Luke Hemmings was probably one of the most powerful magicians alive right now, or that has ever been alive. That he was untouchable. Nothing can hurt him, not even Michael.

The fact that Luke Hemmings was alive, and Michael was hopelessly in love with him.

The operative word there was definitely hopeless, which was evident when Michael realised that there was probably a deeper reason as to why he was slightly obsessed with the other boy, and that he’d definitely be the most miserable person if he ended up actually succeeding in killing him.

He realised when he was fifteen, when Luke was practically stalking him. It’d been quite ironic, actually. Michael probably would’ve actually appreciated the attention if he hadn’t been desperate for a moment alone just to sort through his feelings and figure out why the fuck he couldn’t stop thinking about kissing Luke Hemmings. (He tried to sort through them the following summer, and tried to get over it, but it didn't work.)

Michael honestly wished he’d never fucking figured it out. It’s been practically torturous for the past few years, wanting to be with him, but not being able to. Unrequited love was difficult anyway, it was even worse when the other person completely hated you and you were supposed to hate them.

He did still sort of hate Hemmings. He was an annoying prick. 

Luke let out a whimper, and Michael almost shot up and hurried over to his bed to check if he was okay, but he managed to refrain himself. Both of them had nightmares, and hearing the other boy cry and whimper in his sleep wasn't anything uncommon to him. 

He had his shirt off, Michael could make that out in the darkness if he squinted hard enough. Hemmings always complained that it was too warm in their dorm room ― which it wasn’t, by the way, ― so he slept with his shirt off and the windows wide open all year long. Michael used to kick up a fuss about it, but it was easier not to. He just tugged an extra blanket up to his chin every night. 

He felt himself starting to drift off when Hemmings let out a groan, and it should be annoying but it was more familiar than anything. Michael was finally home, back in his dorm room with Luke, and for the first time in a very long while he felt comfortable, and not completely mad at the world.

That is, until Hemmings woke him up.

He had no concern for being quiet in the mornings. As soon as he was awake ― which was at six am, by the way. What kind of an animal woke up at six am? ― everyone had to be awake, including Michael. He’d bang all around the room, footsteps sounding more like a baby elephant than a teenager.

The curtains were wide open, like they always were. Hemmings actually believed the myth that vampires were hurt by sunlight, so he seemed to try and expose Michael to as much of it as possible. They used to argue over that a lot, but they sort of stopped arguing over petty things like that when Michael tried to kill him. 

(Hemmings claimed that the first time Michael tried to kill him was in fifth year, which wasn't true. He was only trying to scare him with the chimera he set on him, maybe make him wet his pants and cry. It was his own fault he decided to fight it. 

He also tried to tell people that Michael pushed him down a flight of stairs that year, but that was just an accident. They’d already been fighting at the top of the staircase when Michael had caught him off guard by sucker punching him and Hemmings had tripped. Although, when one of his friends had asked if he’d thrown Luke Hemmings down a flight of stairs, he’d said, “Fuck yes I did.”)

He’d only actually tried to kill him in the spring of their fifth year. In his defence, he’d been fifteen and kind of terrified by the fact that he was in love with someone he thought he hated. Or maybe he wasn't terrified. Angry was probably a better word for it. He just hated Luke so much, he couldn't stand the sight of him and the way he felt about him made him feel sick to his stomach.

It’d been Fiona that’d given him the pocket recorder. It hadn't looked like much, and Michael hadn't exactly known what’d happened if he used it. She’d just warned him not to speak when it was on.

He stood by Hemmings, pushing the button on the recorder as soon as the other boy opened his mouth to make some snarky comment at him. But it wasn't him who ended up speaking, it was one of Luke’s many fucking fan girls. Philippa bloody Stainton walked over to embarrass herself, and the second she tried to say hello to Hemmings, the recorder swallowed up her voice like a mouse being sucked up into a Hoover. 

Michael tried to hit stop as soon as he heard her, but it didn't really help.

She left Watford, and never came back. He wasn't sure if she’d ever actually gotten her voice back, but Fiona hadn't been bothered at all by the mistake.

But that was the last time that Michael had actually tried to hurt Hemmings. He wasn't sure what he would have done if he’d actually taken his voice instead of Philippa’s. 

Hemmings knew that he’d done it too. He’d seen it, but luckily nobody believed him. All of the staff members and students were used to him crying wolf and pointing fingers at Michael whenever anything happened. He could trip in a fucking hallway and it’d somehow be Michael’s fault. (Although, he did cast tripping spells on him quite often.)

Hemmings was stood in front of his wardrobe, trying to find a clean shirt. Michael was just trying his best not to fucking stare at him.

He kicked his covers off of himself, and Hemmings seemed to flinch. “Forget that I’m here?” Michael asked, heading over to his wardrobe to pull out his clothes for the day. When Michael closed his wardrobe door, he was being stared at by the other boy. He wasn’t sure why, but he sneered at him anyway, just because.

He got dressed in the bathroom, like he always did. He was just sort of paranoid that the other boy would end up fighting him whilst he was busy focusing on buttoning his shirt up or something.

Hemmings was still standing by his wardrobe, shirt on but not buttoned up, with his tie hanging around his neck. He froze and stared at him again, looking annoyingly like a deer caught in the headlights. “What’s fucking wrong with you? Cat got your tongue?"

He flinched again, probably because **cat got your tongue** was a particularly nasty spell that Michael had used on him a few times before. 

“Michael,” Hemmings cleared his throat, standing a little awkwardly. “I―”

“Am a fucking wanker?” Michael finished for him, laughing to himself. 

He rolled his eyes, mumbling something. 

“Spit it out.” Hemmings was always like this. Fumbling over his words, and never getting to the point straight away. It was impossible to actually have a conversation with him, not that Michael really wanted to or anything. 

He brushes his hands through his hair, tugging a little on the curls at the top of his head. “Could you just―” He blinked his stupidly blue eyes at Michael, and Michael felt himself start to blush. (He blamed it on the amount of blood he drank last night.)

“No, actually. I don't think I could.” Michael picked up his books and headed out the door, down the stairs. He was pretty sure that he could hear Hemmings boot the door after him. Physical violence was a far better option than having a _magical_ meltdown and setting all of Watford on fire.

* * *

Michael didn't have another interaction with Hemmings until later on.

He didn’t have a conversation with anyone, actually. He sat in silence at breakfast, sulking over whatever the fuck his idiot roommate had being trying to say to him. His friends took the hint, and didn't say a word to him after he ignored them the first few times.

Hemmings just really got on his nerves more than anyone else. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to kiss him or knock him out. 

So Michael went for a walk before his first lesson. The courtyard was mostly empty, and he knew for a fact that Hemmings was in a lesson right now so he wouldn't risk bumping into him. In fact, the only person that he did see in the courtyard was Calum Hood.

He didn't talk to Calum. He never did, honestly. He didn't _want_ to. He’d only spoken to him that day in the Woods for a short moment, and even then he hadn't had a chance to spit more than a sentence out before Hemmings had burst onto the scene and acted like they’d just murdered a family of seven in broad daylight. (Maybe it was a little bad of Michael to hold someone else’s boyfriend’s hands, but he had a good reason for it.)

Besides, as soon as Luke and Ashton had vanished, he’d practically thrown Calum’s hands away and asked him what the fuck had just happened. And then he hadn't spoken to him since. 

Sure, he stared at him in the dining hall sometimes, but that was mainly just because it was funny how mad Hemmings got. His face got all red, and his nose scrunched up as he scowled between both of them. 

Calum hurried to catch up with him, and Michael groaned internally but tried his best to keep his face passive. 

“Michael,” he said, giving him a polite smile.

Michael just looked at him, frowning a little despite wanting to be nice. “Hood,” he nodded. He was definitely regretting getting out of bed that day. His legs still ached from yesterday, and he was thirsty already.

“We haven't talked since you’ve been back.” 

He just frowns a little more at the other boy. “Did we talk before that?” He was pretty sure he’d said more words to Ashton Irwin ― Hemmings’ little lackey ― in his entire time at Watford than he had to Calum Hood.

The other boy just shrugged, and scratched the back of his neck. “Well, no. But I would have liked to talk more.”

Michael just sighed, and let out a humourless laugh. “Fucking hell, Hood. There must be better and… easier ways to get your parents’ attention.” It was a little stereotypical, breaking up with the golden boy and immediately trying to chat up your local sarcastic vampire that’s just skipped two months of school. 

He frowns, brows scrunching up in a way that was almost cute. “What?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head, walking ahead of him. 

“Michael, I thought―” He cut himself off as he started almost jogging to try and keep up with him. “I thought you might need someone to talk to.”

He just snorted, giving Calum a baffled look. “Nope. I’m good.” Normally, he would have followed that up with a ‘a _nd honestly, Hood, if I wanted someone to talk to, it wouldn't be you_ ,’ but he decided to be nice today.

“But―”

Michael stopped where he was standing, rubbing his eyes. He was far too exhausted for this. “Look… Calum. You and Hemmings have got this sort of… golden couple, golden destiny thing going on. I don't really have an interest in getting in the way of that, no offence.” Well he did. He just didn't have an interest in dating Calum Hood. He was pretty, sure. And nice. But Michael wasn't really interested in pretty and nice. 

“But we’re not―” He ignored Calum, walking off. Michael tried his best to ignore the fact that he was definitely limping, even though he was pretty sure that Calum had noticed. “Maybe I don't want a golden destiny!” The other boy yelled.

Michael just rolled his eyes, “When you figure out how to fuck destiny off, let me know.” He could definitely use that advice.

“Well… maybe I want something more interesting!”

That comment irritated Michael more than anything, mainly because it wasn't true in the slightest. He wasn't interesting in the slightest. And he wasn't sure he was more interesting than Luke Hemmings. “I’m not more interesting,” he called, raising his voice just a little. “I’m just wrong for you, mate. I think you need to learn the difference.”

Calum also needed to learn that, unfortunately, you didn't get everything you wanted in the world. It didn't work like that. (Otherwise, if it did, Michael wouldn't be in a personal torment of being hated by the person he loved.)

* * *

Hemmings’ stupidly blue eyes were pretty much fixed on him. Actually, they’d been fixed on him for weeks and Michael was pretty sure that after another day or two of being shamelessly glared at he’d be ready to gouge Luke’s eyes out with a dessert spoon.

Michael was starting to regret not taking his Aunt Fiona’s advice and staying home longer. He missed not having to go to classes, and he honestly felt like complete shit. Last night he had some sort of panic attack in the Catacombs whilst he was trying to feed.

It was dark down there, and maybe he was a little scared of the dark after being trapped in that fucking numpty coffin for weeks. 

He slept for almost ten hours after that, which was a decent amount of sleep for him. He’d functioned better on less, but as soon as he woke up he felt like he’d been asleep on his feet. Niall had suggested going upstairs and having a nap through his free period, but it wasn't like he could. Hemmings would probably pull his desk chair a metre away from Michael’s bed and sit and watch him. 

Luke hadn't been this persistent with stalking him since their fifth year. It was exhausting. Michael didn't know how fifteen-year-old him had managed to keep his distance from him all of the time. Yesterday, he followed him into the boy’s toilets and pretended to wash his hands just to make sure he didn't do anything. Michael was just trying to piss and instead he had to stop himself from either biting him or kissing him. 

(He hadn't made up his mind quite yet about which one he wanted to do the most, or which of the options would finally put him out of his misery.)

Then again, Michael was pretty sure that if he tried either of those Hemmings would definitely put him out of his misery himself. 

Fifth year him had sort of gotten off on that though. Those were his fantasies back then. Kissing Hemmings, biting Hemmings, and Hemmings ridding the world of him. 

Now it was sort of just a mixture of the first two. 

He heard one of the teachers talking about how the Mage was coming back to Watford tomorrow, and Michael realised that tonight was probably his last chance to sneak up to the Mage’s office. Maybe if he just took something, proved that he went up there, it’d get Fiona off of his back for a little while. 

Michael managed to haul himself up there. Usually, you can't enter the Mage’s office without his permission, but when Michael’s mother was still alive, he used to live with her in the headmaster’s rooms, since he was only a toddler. Then they’d go back to the house in Hampshire every summer, and over the holidays. 

He used to play in the office whilst she worked throughout the day. And the Mage had never bothered to take down the wards that had been cast to let him in. He can get into his rooms too. (One time he’d found himself pissed in there, puking in his toilet. Fiona kept trying to convince him to leave steaming bags of shit in his bed.)

Obviously he said no. 

His stomach tightened and flipped a little when he walked in and saw the room exactly the way it’d been. It was too dark in there, abandoned in the Mage’s absence, so Michael conjured a flame in his palm and held it in front of him. 

His stepmother had a flid whenever he did that. Sure, Michael was flammable. But it was fine. Creating fire was easier than breathing, for him. He wasn't just going to stop. 

Although his father had drawn a harsh line over him smoking in the house, since apparently _that_ was a step too far. Not using a flame as his personal flashlight, but smoking.

The entire office was still exactly how his mother had left it. 

It was too difficult staying in there. It made him feel like he ought to sprint into the Mage’s room to puke his guts up into his toilet again. Michael wasn't even sure what Fiona would want. Maybe a book. 

The books were all out of order, not like how they were when his mother was still alive. But at least now, since they're not neatly stacked it wouldn't be noticeable if he took one. 

He pulled one out, one he remembered reading as a kid. _Flames and Blazes_ _― The Art Of Burning_. There was a dragon on the spine and the cover, spitting out the flames that formed the title. It always fascinated him more than the contents of the actual book. 

There was a creak of a floorboard, and Michael jerked slightly, throwing the book somewhere. Something flew out of the pages as the book hit the floor. 

Hemmings was standing in the doorway, glaring at him. His sword was already out, like it always fucking was. Michael was pretty sure that he got it out at the slightest worry. “What are you doing here?” He demanded, voice more accusatory than it really needed to be.

“Looking for one of my mother’s books,” he said. It was the truth. Or, the majority of the truth. It was pretty much all that Hemmings needed to know.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” he snapped, both of his hands on his sword now.

Michael raised his hands, stepping away from the shelves. “I’m not hurting anything. I just want a book.”

“Why?” Luke glared at him a little more, before dropping his stance and his sword to rush forward and snatch up the book from the floor before Michael even had a chance. He wasn't sure why he’d acted like it was a life or death situation, getting the book. Michael hadn’t even been about to rush forward and get it, he was just leaning against the bookcase waiting for Hemmings to fuck off. 

He picked up the small bit of paper, blinking a little at it. “Here,” he mumbled, offering it to him. “I’m sorry.”

Michael took the paper, which was one of those old photographs that no one really had anymore. He was half tempted to scrunch it up and shove it in his pocket and maybe storm past Hemmings. But he didn't. He looked at the bit of paper.

It was him. 

He was a baby, maybe only two or three in soft grey dungarees and little white socks. He didn’t look as pale as he was now, and his hair was much lighter than it had been for a while. Baby Michael was smiling at the camera, and reaching out to hold someone’s fingers.

It was his mother’s hand; he recognised her wedding ring. He used to like to twist it around her finger when he was little, fascinated by it for some weird reason. 

“Michael…” Hemmings drew his attention away from the photo, and Michael blinked back tears as he looked at him. He held the book out to him, and Michael snatched it, slipping the photograph back into its pages. “I need to tell you something.”

“What?” He and Hemmings didn't need to tell each other anything. In fact, they made a point of doing exactly the opposite of that. 

“I need to talk to you.”

Michael just frowned. “Okay. Go on, then.”

Luke moved over to his sword, sheathing the blade and making it disappear into thin air. “Not here. Uh, back in the dorm. We’re not supposed to be here and uh, what I have to tell you is sort of private.”

Maybe the small, stupid part of Michael’s heart jumped a little bit at that statement. A crush was definitely private. But then again, he’d be stupid to think that Luke Hemmings would ever have a crush on him. He hated him, and Michael was the freak that was head over heels for his worst enemy. “Right, okay.” He nodded. 

“Come on, then,” Hemmings said, gesturing for him to walk ahead. He looked embarrassed, and kind of like he wanted to die. Exactly how Michael felt, then. 

Michael’s not sure he’s ever experienced anything more awkward than walking back to the dorm with Hemmings. They’ve never done that together. Even in first year, Michael had gone back over to his actual friends five minutes after meeting Luke, completely unimpressed with his roommate. They’d both made their own, separate ways to their room that day, and every day since. 

He slammed the door behind them, set the book on his bed and sat down beside it, giving Hemmings an expectant look. “Okay, Hemmings. We’re okay now. Spit it out.”

Hemmings was still standing up, and he stalked over to his book bag and pulled out a notebook. “Alright. Uh, I don't exactly want to be the one telling you this. Or talking to you at all. But uh, it’s about your mum, and I don't think its right to keep it from you.”

“What about my mum?” Michael snarled, narrowing his eyes at him. 

Luke looked like he was having difficulty getting his words out, as per usual. “When you were gone. Um, I’m not sure if anyone told you but uh― the Veil lifted.”

Michael was pretty sure that he was going to be sick right there, all over Hemmings. His chest tightened, and his stomach felt like someone was standing on it. “My― My mum…”

“She was looking for you. She uh, she kept coming back every night, here. But she couldn't find you.”

Maybe that weird feeling in his stomach was guilt. His mum came for him, to talk to him, and he wasn't here. That was probably his one chance to ever speak to her again. Hemmings would probably hack him off before the Veil lifted again. 

Michael opened his mouth, trying to say something but he couldn't find the words. 

“She said she was called here, to our room. And that this was uh, your… place? She was a bit fuming that you weren't here. She thought I’d hurt you.”

“She talked to you?” That sounded more like an accusation than a question, but he couldn't help it.

Luke ran his hands through his curls, frowning a little. “Yeah. She came looking for you, and uh… gave me a message because the Veil was closing.” He looked down at his notepad. 

“What did she say?” Michael clenched his jaw, trying not to get too pissed off with himself, or Hemmings. 

“She said that her killer walks, and um, you should find Nicodemus and bring her peace.” 

Michael glanced at his hands for a moment. “Bring her peace?” He was talking more to himself than Hemmings. Why the fuck was he even talking to Hemmings? He didn't like talking to him. “But she killed the vampires. Does― Does she mean the Humdrum?” Michael wasn't even fucking sure if the Humdrum had been around to kill his mother back then. That’d been years ago. “Who’s Nicodemus?” He demanded, eyes zeroing in on the other boy. 

“She didn't say,” Luke shrugged.

“What else?” Michael pressed. “Was there anything else?”

Luke lifted his hand, ghosting his fingertips over his own forehead. “Well, she kissed me. She told me it was for you, to um, give it to you.”

Michael really hoped he didn't try to kiss him, because he’d definitely fucking bite him if he did. He stood up, pacing a little in the line between his bed and the bathroom door. “Who the fuck is Nicodemus?” He asked, and Hemmings just shook his head. 

“I don't bloody know! I thought you’d know.”

“My mum ― my _mother_ ― comes back. She came back to fucking see me and you talked to her instead. Fucking unbelievable, Hemmings.”

Hemmings just frowned at him, eyes threatening a glare. “Don't fucking blame me! It’s not my fault you weren't here. Your mother came for you, and she came and came and came every single fucking night and―” He cut off, but Michael already knew what he was going to say, because it was pretty much the only thought that was circling his mind. 

Michael should've been there. She came for him, and he wasn't there for her, and he’d never get a chance to make it up to her because she was fucking dead. 

He stopped pacing, and decided to take his anger out on the only other person in the room instead of taking it out on himself. The part of his brain that told him not to go for Luke, because the Anathema would cast him out instantly if he actually hurt him was oddly quiet, and he took that as a sign to do it. He charged towards the other boy, his hands reaching for his neck. 

Luke jumped to his feet and caught his wrists before he got a chance to hurt him. His hands were warm against his skin, exactly as they’d been the day they shook hands. Exactly as he’d always imagined them to be. “Michael. You don't want to hurt me? Do you?”

Michael just ignored him and strained against his grip. Luke’s back was pressed against the door of his wardrobe, and Michael was standing so close to him that he could feel his warm breath hitting his forehead. “You don't want to _hurt_ me.” Hemmings tried to push him back. “I’m sorry, Michael. But it isn’t my fault. A-And it’s not yours. Just… look at me. I’m sorry.” 

Michael did, blinking up at him. He’d never really noticed just how much taller than him Luke was. It was only a couple of inches, but it was still noticeable. He snatched his arms away, stepping back and huffing a little as he stormed back over to his bed. 

* * *

Michael found himself in the Catacombs after the incident with Hemmings. 

His mother’s tomb was down there. Her body. Sometimes, if he didn't finish feeding too late, he’d go there and sit by her. 

He hated to think that she might be watching him. Most people would be comforted by the thought that their mother looked over them, but Michael didn't want that. If she was watching him, she had to know what he was. And his mother hated vampires. If she was still alive she wouldn't have even hesitated before killing him the second he’d been turned. Even though he’d been an infant child. Her infant child. 

His father didn't give a shit about what he was. He was much more bothered by the fact that his son was gay than the fact that he was a vampire. His father just simply didn't acknowledge the fact that his son drank rat blood daily. He tucked it away in a box and pretended it wasn't there, like he did with all of his problems.

But his mother would have killed him for it. 

He stayed in the Catacombs a little while after he was done feeding. He sat by his mother’s tomb, and stared at the photograph of himself as a toddler. And maybe he cried a little, but nobody had any proof of that so it was fine. 

Hemmings was already tucked into bed once Michael eventually mustered enough willpower to drag himself up to the top of the tower. He ignored him, getting changed for bed. He felt like death, and he couldn’t be arsed with another altercation with Luke Hemmings. (Three is far too much for the day when he’s running off of a few rats and self hatred.)

Michael closed his eyes, trying to stop himself from crying again. Hemmings cleared his throat, so he definitely couldn't cry. 

“I’ll help you,” he said softly, and Michael opened his eyes just to look at him and make sure he hadn't completely imagined the interaction. 

“Help me what?” Michael asked, raising a brow. 

“I’ll help you find whatever killed your mother.” He rolled over to face Michael’s bed. 

“Why?” He should’ve expected this. This was the exact hero-type bullshit that Hemmings always pulled. Michael hated him for it. 

He didn't answer for a moment. “Because she was your mum. And… they killed her in front of you. And that’s― that’s wrong.”

Well. Maybe Hemmings did have a heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaa. carry on fic !! yes. if u have any Thoughts pls comment or send me an ask on tumblr I would link it however im lazy and. yes im p sure it was linked in the last chapter idk its mikeycliffords its not rocket science to find it ok,, also yes this has just been updated. i promise pt. 3 is coming soon im literally sitting w my cat rn and im writing it (hes helping by licking my arm and giving me moral support. sadly he cant read but if he could im sure hed try and be encouraging)


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